


Distress Signals

by PeaceHeather



Series: Buffy fics [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Rescue, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 91,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6408091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeaceHeather/pseuds/PeaceHeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-series, post Angel. After angering a demon who wants something from him that he can't give, Spike is left helpless and pretty nearly hopeless too. How can he expect rescue when everyone he knows has either died or thinks he's still dead himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Running Away, Walking Out

**Author's Note:**

> This story first hit me like a ton of bricks in December of 2011, and I proceeded to write all 90,000 words or so inside of three months. I've never had a story before or since do that to me, and I remain very proud of it. The final chapter went up in March of 2012, and I earned a Best New Author award in Round 26 of the Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards. It's overdue to be posted here, and I hope you all enjoy it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes begin their journeys.

Afterward Spike could only ever remember his flight from LA in fragments and scraps; staggering his way through the shadows back to the meeting point, avoiding the sunrise, bracing himself for painful sprints across open ground and intersections; finding and stealing one of Angel’s cars, barely squeezing it out of the collapsing parking garage, grateful that The Great Forehead had had the good sense to install that necro-whatsis glass so he could drive by day without getting his own personal collection of cinders and ash all over the front seat; the frantic dash for supplies at his apartment, looking over his shoulder all the while and only willing to go there at all because it was on his way _out_ and not further _in_ to the budding new hell-dimension that was the City of Angels; the long, long drive with stops only to refuel, down a bag of lukewarm blood, bandage wounds, catch an hour’s kip in the backseat; and above all not thinking, not letting himself wonder or worry about the rest of them.  Not letting himself mourn, for as long as he could get away with it.

It wasn’t until he was halfway across Utah that he stopped looking over his shoulder every few minutes, shoulders tight, half-convinced that they’d missed someone on the Black Thorn or that the Senior Partners were right behind him.  It wasn’t until Nebraska, in a truck stop somewhere off I-80, two bottles of something in him whose name he couldn’t even remember, that he allowed himself to admit why he was afraid – because if the Senior Partners or their agents were to get hold of him, they’d be able to finish the job; all of Angel’s people would be eliminated.

All of them.  Oh, God, all of them.

He shoved himself farther back into his corner, out of the already dim light, and sat shaking with his hands clutched around the bottle and his teeth clamped around the moan of anguish that threatened to slither free.  Gunn bleeding all over the pavement, Angel roaring along with an actual sodding dragon as they tore each other apart, Illyria _sidestepping_ into a more hospitable dimension after dragging his own wounded arse to a sheltered corner – they were all gone.  Wesley was killed elsewhere that night, Cordelia was already dead, Fred had been destroyed, and Lorne? If he lived, Lorne would never be the same again.

That left Spike.  _And I only am escaped alone to tell thee_ , he thought.  _Soddin’ sole survivor, as if I was special.  As if I deserved to make it out when no one else did._

“You should go to her, hon,” said the waitress.  “She needs you.”

Spike blinked. “Sorry, luv, what was that?”

“I said, ‘Do you need anything’,” she replied, shifting her weight from foot to foot tiredly.  “It’s getting to be last call, hon, you’ll need to go soon.”

“Er, yeah,” said Spike.  Drunk enough or tired enough, a bloke will start hearing things.  “Right. What’s the nearest hotel, then?”

He tossed back the last of the bottle, trying to blank it all out again, trying so hard not to fall apart, not just yet, not yet; but he couldn’t seem to shove the thoughts aside. 

And there was that one question that wouldn’t go away: _What am I going to do now?_  

* * *

 

Afterwards, Buffy could never remember the particulars of the conversation in which she learned Spike was alive.  She was just passing through the room where Andrew was talking, and all she caught was that there was an apocalypse in Los Angeles, and that it was “too bad about Angel and Spike”.

She almost dropped her glass of orange juice.

The rest, she only kept in fragments and scraps; Andrew’s trip to LA to retrieve a Slayer who’d been horrifically abused as a child, discovering that Spike was there; his conference with Giles afterward, and the Watcher’s decision not to inform her; their mistrust of Angel now that he was CEO of Wolfram & Hart and their subsequent decision not to involve themselves in what they later learned was Angel’s attempt to take the evil corporation down from the inside.

Now they were all dead.  Angel, his friends, _Spike,_ were gone and the City of Angels itself was sucked down into a hell dimension, and how much of that was because Buffy and the other Slayers weren’t called in to assist – weren’t even notified that there was a situation where they _could_ have helped?

Buffy found herself clutching her stomach with one hand, trying to hold in the ache.  Spike – she’d seen him in Sunnydale, knew he was going up in flames even if she never saw him dust, knew, _knew_ that he was gone.  Mourned him.  Gave into pressure from Giles (and why does it always come back to him, she wondered) to “move on” and tried to date while staying in Rome… Realized she’d loved him for far longer than she had ever been willing to admit to herself.

And now, to discover that he’d been alive for that entire time, the knowledge kept from her “for her own good”, again… it was as if he’d only just died, all over again, the grief as raw now as it was the day they’d closed the Hellmouth together.

And Giles had been willing to let her suffer her grief, all for the sake of protecting a lie.  If she’d known, God, if she’d ever guessed that there was a hint of possibility that he’d managed to make it out of Sunnydale, maybe she could have gone to LA to fight beside him, one last time.

Maybe he’d still be alive – undead, whatever – now.

Another fragment she recalled later, Andrew falling all over himself to apologize, swearing that Spike himself had wanted to be the one to tell her, in his own time, had made Andrew promise to keep his secret; his sincere belief that he was doing the right thing by not telling her; his regret for coming between The Slayer And Her One True Love.

She turned away, unable to look at him, one hand holding her stomach in, the other shaking around her glass of juice.

Another fragment: when she found Giles in the kitchen and spoke his name; the look on his face when he realized she knew – not a hint of regret, only guilt that his lies were finally uncovered.  The ache inside stabbed at her, until she thought she might throw up right then.

Luckily for her and the carpet, though, Giles started talking, and anger began to replace the agony.  God, the man was a broken record where Spike was concerned:  Spike was a vampire, one of the evil undead, soul or no soul; she wasn’t in love, it was only obsession, allowing him to have an unhealthy influence on her judgment, even after all this time; it was for the best that she move on, get over him, try to live a normal life; he kept her in the dark – she laughed bitterly, he actually _used_ the phrase “for your own good” – and on and on until she was no longer sick to her stomach, only sick of him.

She didn’t remember his exact words and didn’t want to.  Her own, on the other hand…

“I didn’t realize I was still sixteen, Giles,” she began.  His mouth snapped shut at the quiet, absolutely blank tone of her voice.  It was a tone he hadn’t heard her use since the days leading up to their battle against The First.

“I didn’t realize my life was ever yours to run.  I didn’t realize those choices, those decisions about how I would live _my_ life, were _ever_ yours to make.

“Obsession?  You of all people want to talk about obsessions and poor judgment?  Well, I guess you’d know all about it, wouldn’t you.  After all, you’re the one who tried to have Spike murdered behind my back, never mind that he had a soul, at the exact time when the First was working its hardest to divide us and just when I needed a warrior – a _friend_ – I could depend on.  You think being trustworthy is an unhealthy influence on my judgment?  You’re talking about the only man – the only _person_ – to ever stand by me completely, unreservedly, with no strings attached and without walking out on me when I needed them most.  That even includes my mother, Giles.  And God knows it includes you.”

She set her glass down on the counter before she could throw it across the room.  Giles didn’t move, didn’t even seem to breathe as she found the words for her next assault.

“You want to talk about unhealthy influences?” she asked, turning to face him again.  “Go look in the mirror.  I remember the day we first met and you told me that a Watcher’s job is to observe and record, but never interfere.” She snorted in disbelief. “By those standards you’re a terrible Watcher, Giles, or maybe just a liar and a hypocrite.  You’ve done nothing _but_ interfere from the beginning.  You observe, and then you _judge_ and you _manipulate_ and you _control_ … even if it’s by doing nothing at all.  And always, always, always because _you knew what was best_.  Quentin Travers would be so proud.

“I’m done. Never again, Giles – _never again_ ,” she repeated when he made as if to interrupt her.  “You can find some other girl to try and make into your puppet.  God knows you have enough other Slayers to choose from now, it should be pretty easy for you to find one willing to let you pull her strings whenever the hell you want.  All I know is that it won’t be me anymore.  Not ever.”

She was shaking with anger now as she moved toward the door, but she never raised her voice above that deadly low tone.  “I can’t believe I ever thought I could trust you again after Sunnydale.  I should have known better.  Now I do.”

“Buffy…” Giles stepped toward her, a stricken look on his face.  “Don’t,” she cut him off again.  “I’ll be packing my things and leaving, Giles.  Today if I can.  No later than this weekend.  Don’t cross my path.  Don’t speak to me, don’t even look at me – you son of a bitch.”

She made it as far as her room, one hand holding her stomach the entire time, before the tears began.  She managed to get the door shut and locked, and to find a pillow to bury her face in, before she dropped to her knees and began to _howl_.

Afterward, exhausted and heartsore, she started methodically packing her things, wiping her cheeks occasionally as the tears started up again.  Her stomach still hurt, there was an ache in her throat that she couldn’t swallow away, her eyes were swollen, and there were only two thoughts she could hold onto for any length of time.  The first, of course, was of Spike.

The second: _What am I going to do now?_


	2. Chicago, Toledo

_What am I going to do?_

With no answer to that question, Spike wandered between truck stops, diners, and fleabag motels, eventually following I-80 as far as Chicago.  He spent a month there laying low, keeping his ears open and occasionally fishing for news, before he finally let himself relax.  Either Wolfram & Hart’s reach didn’t extend as far as the Windy City, or he simply wasn’t important enough by himself for them to waste resources pursuing.  He’d made it.  He was free.

Exhausted, heartsick, and desperately lonely, but free.

The first thing he did once he was absolutely certain he’d managed to get clear of LA and all its fallout was get thoroughly _pissed_ , absolutely blind drunk on a bender that lasted three days, followed by a hangover that had to have gone for at least seven.  That was all right, though; in fact, it was rather the point.  Sometimes a fella needed to get things out of his system and liquor was as good a way to flush it out as any.  ‘Specially if you threw in the handful of demons he brawled with on a bet and enough Ramones and Sex Pistols to get himself thrown out of two hotels in as many nights.  Sod ‘em anyway, places rented by the hour and he was finally safe to look for better.

Unlike his road-trip drinking, he was aiming this time to let himself feel rather than numb himself to the pain, and Spike _felt_ , God did he ever, roared and wept and fought and mourned as balls-to-the-wall as he did everything else in his unlife.  When he finally sobered up and the last of the hangover was gone, not only was his head clear, but his heart was on its way to mending too.  He still hurt, and knew he would do for a good while yet, but that was all right.  Family deserved to be remembered.  Pain let you know you could still feel pleasure, eventually.

The second thing Spike did, now that he could drop the paranoia, was turn his attention toward this odd little… coincidence, maybe… that had been following him around, a whole series of wee little events that had started – he cast his mind back – at least as far back as Nebraska, if he was remembering right.  It was one thing to be exhausted and half-pissed and hear something different from what your waitress was really saying.  It was quite another to find himself on the receiving end of the same bleeding message over and over and _over_ again.

There was a truck driver on the pay phone outside Lincoln who said “she needs you” just as he was walking past, and a pair of them in a diner near Omaha who dropped “go to her” in their conversation while he was on his way to the cash register.  There was a batch of giggling college girls somewhere in Iowa who crashed right into him, not paying attention at all, silly bints, and amongst all the “sorrys” and “excuse mes” one girl looked him dead in the face and told him he really needed to go to her, because she needed him.

The toll booth operator just outside Chicago, who said “she needs you” in the same tone of voice one usually threw out a “have a nice day,” was more than a little creepy, but probably the absolute weirdest incident took place in the middle of his booze-and-brawl spree.  This adorable little Gaixo demon chippy with a cute ass and a snack bowl full of roast crickets sidled up next to him at the bar as he was ordering his third, or maybe his fourth, bottle of Jack.

“I don’t usually give readings for free,” she said, and he remembered that Gaixos tended to spawn a lot of seers and oracle in their little burrows, “but every time I look at you I get these two messages, and they’re driving me up the wall.”  She smiled at him, munched a cricket.  “Want to hear them?”

He looked her up and down and shrugged.  She really did have a cute little ass. “Well, the first one is that there’s someone who needs you, a girl, and it’s really important that you try to go to her.”

Spike felt a cold little shiver run down his back, covered it by taking a swig from his fresh bottle of JD. “And the second?” he asked. 

“The second one,” and here her smile went from adorable to hot, “tells me that you’re a really great kisser, and if you let me have a good one you’ll be able to get at least five hundred bucks from the betting that goes on when my boyfriend picks a fight with you.”  She tipped her head discreetly toward some kind of Asian kamui who was watching their conversation intently.

“Is that right?” asked Spike. Stepped right into her personal space as he did.

“My readings are _always_ right,” she said.  Still with that smile, and still with that great ass.

So Spike did – leaned in and “gave her a good one” as she put it, his free hand sliding down and around to cup that luscious little bum – and the boyfriend did, and the betting did and it was a grand night all around.

Weird about that first message, but grand.

So once he was finally all sobered up and cleaned up, he sat himself down and thought about the message.  Well, inasmuch as there was anything there to really think about, anyway.  There was really only one “her” in his life, after all; Fred or Illyria may have counted at one time, even Dru not too long ago, but of course they were all gone now.  The Slayer, though – or maybe now she was just the oldest Slayer, who knew – God help him, Buffy would always be the one who filled his heart.  He’d found her and given her up, and it was the hardest thing he’d ever done.  But giving her up when she didn’t love him wasn’t the same thing as getting rid of her.  She was in his soul now; he’d never be free of her.  Wouldn’t want to be.

And it wasn’t like this was some obscure prophetic rubbish of the sort the Powers usually liked to play with.  “She needs you; go to her.”  Right then, he could do that, would be happy to, but for one minor complication.  He had no bloody idea where she was.

On the other hand… in the month he’d been in Chicago, one of the bits of information he’d picked up was that a new Hellmouth had opened in Ohio, of all places.  There were bound to be Slayers there, and where there were Slayers there were Watchers, and from there he ought to be able to track her down easy peasy.  Long as the new girls weren’t the sort to try and dust a bloke without letting him get a word in edgewise first, he should be fine.

He took a deep breath and pulled out his road atlas.  It looked like he was off to Cleveland.

* * *

 

_What am I going to do?_

As it turned out, this wasn’t a very hard question for Buffy to answer.  Here she was, not three days after telling Giles exactly where he could stick his deceit, his manipulation and his hypocrisy, stepping off a plane in Cleveland, Ohio, where the English was American, the food was familiar, and the weather was way too cold in the winter time.

She’d have to remember to thank Andrew again.  Deeply apologetic for his part in the whole thing, he’d made all the necessary arrangements on her behalf – her belongings, such as they were, would arrive in a couple of days, and once she checked in at the local “Slayer Center” they would take care of everything else.  She could replace all those weapons that couldn’t come through Customs, there was a paying job waiting for her as an instructor, and she could even live on site if she wanted.

Instant new life back in the States; just add Buffy.

So how come nothing felt new?  How come nothing about this “fresh start” felt like anything except more of the same? 

Buffy had finally stood up for herself and walked away from a relationship that she’d long since outgrown, and yet here she was, feeling as if she hadn’t really been set free at all.

Why did she still feel so exhausted and sad and hurt?

Maybe it was because she wasn’t really free of the Council, and never would be.  Buffy still had responsibilities as a Slayer, and she couldn’t walk away from those even if she never spoke to Giles again.

Or maybe she still wasn’t done with her grief, even after all this time.  She’d be going about her day and at random moments her heart would cry out, _Spike_ , and she would have to stop and fight back tears yet again.

The thought that they could have had another year together...

Or maybe it was the travel, she told herself quickly.  After Sunnydale was destroyed, she’d been essentially homeless, never mind the fancy hotels and apartments she’d stayed in over the past year.  Pretty much everything she’d ever owned that might be of personal or sentimental value had been destroyed in Sunnydale, and she’d crossed Europe so many times that she’d gotten out of the habit of putting down roots.

Maybe she just needed to be in one place for awhile.  Get a place to live that felt like a home instead of yet another hotel room.

That was one of the reasons she’d opted not to stay at the Slayers’ new facility.  It turned out Xander was now living only about two hours from the Hellmouth, and it only took a quick email to let her know he’d be more than happy to have her stay as long as she wanted.  A commute from Cleveland to Toledo would be nothing to a girl who’d spent most of her childhood in Los Angeles, and this way she’d have privacy, plus a non-girly housemate who really, completely, understood where she was coming from.

She had a feeling she’d need that, more than anything else she would find here.

She couldn’t wait to see him again.  Xander, after finishing up a stint in Africa  helping to track down freshly-awakened Slayers, had taken to his own new life like a duck to water.  He insisted that no matter where you went, there would always be a need for someone who could build things or fix things, and that this was doubly true when living anywhere near a Hellmouth.  Within a month of his return, his new company, “Anyanka Construction, Carpentry & Home Repair”, had taken off and was beginning to flourish.

The fun part was why.  Partly, Xander had a large enough staff to work two shifts on major projects, which gave him an edge over other companies – but mostly it was because his second-shift crew was mostly drawn from the local demon community, working alongside a handful of other humans “in the know”.

In other words, Xander Harris had an in with a set of customers other builders would never get to touch.  Even better for Buffy’s purposes, he was popular enough with the demon crowd ( _using his status as demon magnet for the good_ , she thought with a smile) that he could get information and assistance that even Giles would have difficulty tracking down.

Or as he liked to put it, Brick Layer: 1, Council of Wankers: 0.

He’d grown so much since Sunnydale, the so-called ordinary guy who saved the world just by talking.  She was itching to reconnect, to tell him in person how proud she was of him.

He’d grown so much; maybe he could show her how to grow too. 


	3. Thunderstorm, Sanctuary

Spike was exhausted.

The trip from Chicago to Cleveland was only supposed to take about six hours, depending on how religiously one felt like following the speed limits, but Spike had taken over four hours just to reach the halfway point on his map, and now he could go no further.  The entire trip so far had been full of delays and near-misses.  It was starting to get to the point where, if he didn’t know better, didn’t know in his bones how far beneath notice he was now that he was alone, he’d think that the Powers That Bugger were trying to send him a message.

First was the delay in getting started.  Specially tempered, vamp-friendly car windows were useless if you had to roll them down to pay the tolls, so he’d had to wait till nightfall to start out at all.  Then there was the buggering wildlife, from raccoons up to bloody gigantic deer, fat from raiding the Midwestern cornfields and whose only natural predators were apparently the bloody vehicles on the highway.  Sodding miracle he’d missed the third one he’d seen, and Spike was fairly sure that if it hadn’t been for vamp eyesight picking up the near-bloody-invisible gleam of fur in his headlights, his new car would be demolished and he’d be bloody walking to Cleveland from here on out.

This did not help his mood.

“Go to her, she needs you” – _right_ , he thought.  _Couldn’t make it bloody easier to get there, then, could you?_ No, ‘course not. That, and “she needs you” didn’t say a thing about whether she _wanted_ him, or would be at all happy to see him back from the dead after all this time.  Likely because she wouldn’t.

The deer finally gave up and disappeared, and Spike was starting to relax when he discovered that, no, they weren’t so much showing some sense and avoiding the road as they were taking shelter from the weather.

He’d lived in southern California too long.  Gotten spoiled, he had.  Sunnydale and Los Angeles didn’t see a lot of rain, being on the edge of the bleeding desert, and they sure as hell never saw thunderstorms like this.  It didn’t matter how good his eyesight was, nor his reflexes, when the rain was so heavy he couldn’t see more than a couple paces in front of his hood ornament.  It was pounding down on the car roof hard enough to drown out the music, unless he turned it up loud enough to make his ears bleed.

Spike couldn’t remember how many decades it had been since he’d been out in weather this awful.  Sensible fella stayed indoors on a night like tonight, with a few candles lit and either a bottle or a body to drink from till he fell asleep.  Weather was fine, if it was out there and you were in here.  But driving in it?  You’d have to be a bug-shagging nutter, wouldn’t you?

Obviously, him being love’s bitch even after all this time meant he qualified.

But if Buffy needed him, he would go, through hell and back, till the end of the world, even if it dusted him.  It already had, once.  He’d show up wherever she was, and she’d be furious and resent him for being there, but he’d help because she needed him.  The soddin’ oracles said so.  And once she was safe from whatever it was, she’d hate him, and that hatred plus his own cowardice would drive him off, but not far because it never did and because he was helplessly drawn to her and always would be. Whether or not he deserved to be near her didn’t enter into it…

Spike scowled.  Clearly the rain wasn’t helping his mood any, either.

Bloody miracle he’d caught the exit sign, with visibility this bad.  Now he was pulling into some minuscule little town a just this side of the Indiana/Ohio line and praying they weren’t too small to have at least one hotel or truckstop, or something with walls and a roof where he might catch some rest till the weather cleared up a bit.  He’d take a barn if it would get the noise of the rain to stop.  Spike could sleep to Johnny Rotten screaming the tunes at full volume, but this constant roar just made his head hurt and his shoulders crawl up round his ears.

Bloody Christ, he hated being alone.

* * *

 

“Buffy!  Over here!”

Buffy looked up from baggage claim just in time to brace herself for a bear hug.  “Xander, ohh,” she said leaning into him, “God am I happy to see you!”

“Me, too,” he said into her hair, “me, too. Ow. Ribs! Ribs!” They pulled apart laughing.  “Let me look at you, it’s been so long, I can’t believe you’re finally here.  You look… wow.”  Xander blinked.  “Don’t take this wrong, Buffster, but you look really…”

“The word you’re looking for is exhausted,” she said.  Tried to pull together a smile for him.

“Yeah,” said Xander.  His own smile looked about as believable as hers felt.  “Uh, but hey, the truck, I got a really good parking spot so you won’t have to walk far at all.  Then you can vent at me, or sleep till Toledo, or whatever you want.”

“I should try to stay awake,” she said, “the jetlag, you know…”

“I remember,” said Xander with a nod.  “Venting it is, then.  With or without the caffeinated goodness?”

“Definitely with.”  She grabbed the last of her bags off the conveyor.  “Pretty sure I won’t make it otherwise.”

It wasn’t long before she was buckling in for yet another ride, this time in Xander’s truck where she could stretch her legs out, slurp hot coffee, and finally, finally, let some of her guard down.  They talked the entire way to his house, Buffy going until she was hoarse, floating from one topic to another and just babbling in a way she hadn’t let herself in… she fell silent, thinking back.

“Something wrong?” Xander asked after a minute.

“No,” she said, “just trying to think how long it’s been since I could just… you know… talk like this.”  She looked down at her hands, clasped around her coffee.  “I’ve really missed you.  I guess I didn’t realize how much.”

“Missed you too,” said Xander, quiet in the darkened truck.  They pulled into his driveway, but he left the engine running.  “Can I ask you something?”

Buffy nodded, still looking at her hands.

“It’s just… we, you, talked the whole way here, but I’m still not totally sure what happened in England that you had to leave so suddenly.  Not that I’m not glad you’re here, I am – and, you know, if you don’t want to talk about it –“

“It’s okay, Xan,” she said.  “You know me and the deep feelings stuff.  Not really good at the discussing things like that…” she sighed.  “I… kinda broke up with Giles.  If you can call it that.”

It was Xander’s turn to be silent for a minute.  Finally he said, “Wow.”

“Yeah.”  She swallowed a lump in her throat, and added in a small voice, “There’s more to it, but I figure the etiquette is to only drop one bombshell at a time, right?”

“Sounds like we need more coffee,” said Xander.  “You want it here, or should we go somewhere?”

“I’ve been traveling forever, Xan,” she said.  “Just find me a couch and I’ll tell you everything.”

“You got it,” he said.  He gave her leg a squeeze.  “C’mon.  There’s supposed to be a storm coming tonight.  We should get your stuff and get inside.”

“’Kay,” said Buffy.  “Xan?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad I came.  I’m glad I’m here.”  Closed her eyes for a second, fought back the tears. Again.  “I’m just… I’m glad I’m here.”

“Yeah,” said Xander.  “Me too.”

* * *

 

His name wasn’t really Figg, but it was the closest anyone human could come to pronouncing it, so that was all right.  He was old, and tired; his hair now was as silver as his eyes, though without the greenish tinge, and when he took off the glamour, his horns curled all the way from his temples to the base of his neck and back around to touch his ears.  His family and friends had all gone and he was waiting for them to return, but the waiting was hard.

He needed help, sometimes, a friendly face to give him the strength to keep going, to keep his watch until the family came back.  They’d come.  He knew they would.  He just didn’t know when anymore.

So Figg couldn’t help but feel pleased when the young man with the long black coat and peculiar hair came into the Quik-E-Mart, shaking off the rain and muttering under his breath.  Figg could feel it – this one wasn’t human, he was like Figg.  He could help.  He would be good company while Figg waited for the family to come back.

Humans could help him wait in a pinch, but they never lasted as long.

He pushed himself slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on the scuffed bar stools that were all the Quik-E-Mart’s diner offered, and listened as the young man spoke to the pimply-faced girl behind the counter, asking if there were any hotels nearby where he could get out of the soddin’ rain.

Figg ran the greenhouse on the edge of town.  It was lonely there without his family, but the young man had mentioned sod, and Figg understood about sod.  This young man would be very good company.  He seemed nice.

He shuffled on over, then, and introduced himself.  Told the young man he had plenty of room, told him that if he’d be willing to keep Figg company for a bit he could stay as long as he liked.  Once they stepped out under the awning, after he hawked up a bit of phlegm, Figg took off the glamour so the vampire could see he had nothing to fear.  They were alike, he said; the humans didn’t always understand, but Figg and the young man would get along just fine, wouldn’t they?

The young man allowed as to how they might, at that.  He smiled, and Figg beamed back at him.  Such a nice young man.

Figg climbed into his pickup and drove slowly so that the young man would be able to follow him home.  He invited the vampire in – he remembered he needed to do that – and led him between the rows of plants in the dark, till they got to the potting shed that sat between the flower greenhouse and the vegetable greenhouse.  He warned the young man about the old cistern in the floor and told him to watch his step.  He thanked the young man for helping him carry his things, and showed him where on the workbench to put the extra bags of fertilizer and such.

Then he hit the vampire across the head and shoulders with a shovel, knocked him down, and kept hitting him until he stopped moving.

It was such a bother doing that with humans, Figg thought, pulling out the lengths of chain and barbed wire and stooping painfully to bind the vampire’s limbs.  You always had to be so careful not to break them.

The young man would be much better company.


	4. Catching Up, Waking Up

Buffy told Xander everything, or at least everything she remembered, from Los Angeles sliding into a hell dimension, through the deaths of Angel and all the rest, all the way up to learning that Giles and Andrew, if not others, had conspired to keep everything from her – and worst of all, their decision to neglect mentioning that Spike had been alive the entire past year.

She was fighting tears, again, by the time she finished.  "I just – I mean," she waved her hand helplessly, "can you imagine if you found out all of a sudden that Anya had been alive this entire time? That you could have been with her, if someone had just had the decency to tell you?"

Xander swallowed. "I kinda can imagine, yeah," he said. "I'd rather not, though."

"I just," she sniffed, "I can't help but think that maybe – maybe if I'd been there, you know? Maybe I could've done something, maybe they'd still be alive."

"Buffy, hey," said Xander softly.  "Don't do that to yourself.  There's no way you can blame yourself for whatever went down in Los Angeles –"

"But I do, a little," she said in a small voice.  "I'm angry at myself, for not being there.  I'm angry at Spike for not telling me he came back – and don't even get me started on _how_ or _why_ or any of that.  And I'm really, really, _really_ angry at Giles for doing this to me.  Keeping things from me.  I thought we'd all finally outgrown that phase, you know?"

Xander sighed. "You mean the one where we love each other but we don't trust each other enough to talk about what's really on our minds?"

Buffy looked at him in surprise.  Smiled.  "That's the one, yeah," she said.  "Africa was really good for you, wasn't it?"

"I like to think so," said Xander, "but we're not talking about me."  He nudged her knee.  "I know why I acted like that – what about you?"

She wiped at her eyes, took a sip of lukewarm coffee.  "It was like – I can be the Slayer and make life-or-death decisions involving me, you, and everyone else and no one bats an eye – most of the time.  But when it's time for me to be just Buffy, suddenly we don't trust each other enough to think that I'll do the right thing, or that you all will be okay with whatever I decide… God, we were so stupid."

"Yeah," Xander nodded.  He bit his lip for a second, then asked, "Buffy?  I know you and Spike were together, and I know we found out in the worst possible way, what with Anya and the security camera and everything, but… how long were you really with him?  Before all of that?"

"Most of that year," she said.  She couldn't bring herself to look at him.  "Speaking of doing things that involved me without asking first."

"What, with Spike?"

"No," she said.  "I mean, checking to see whether or not I really was in Hell first, before trying to bring me back.  Someone could have done that, right?"

"We really screwed that one up," said Xander.  "But you never would have told us that, would you?"

"Not till I was forced to, no," she agreed.  "Stupid spell.  You were all trying so hard and I didn't want to disappoint you –"

"Hold the phone," said Xander.  "You died.  You _died_ , Buffy.  You came back.  We were ecstatic just to have you with us again, and you were worried about disappointing us?  How does that work?"

Buffy thought for a minute.  "It was kind of the whole being-Buffy versus being-the-Slayer thing again, I guess," she said slowly. "I couldn't stop being the Slayer no matter what I did wrong, but I could lose you guys if… and I didn't want to lose my friends, so…"

"So you didn't say anything," said Xander. "Even though you – God, Buff, you have to have hated us."

"Little bit," said Buffy.  She drew her knees up under her chin.

"So… is that why you went to Spike?"

It was Buffy's turn to sigh.  "Maybe, I guess.  I mean, that was probably part of it.  It was like, he's a vampire, so it's okay if I hate him, you know?  But there was also… he just – he _got it_ , Xan.  He got… being dead.  I mean, he'd been there himself once," she smiled sadly.  "He could tell that I wasn't okay, and it never felt like he was waiting for me to hurry up and just be happy again the way it felt like you guys were doing sometimes."  She swallowed.  "Especially Willow, since she was all with the being proud of herself and couldn't figure out why I didn't want to celebrate with her."

Xander winced.  "Yeah, she was kind of in trouble with the magics even then, wasn't she?"

Buffy shrugged.  "At the time I didn't know, and I really didn't care. I didn't care about anything, and Spike helped with that, too. He was," she closed her eyes, braced herself, "for a long time after I came back I was just… numb.  I didn't want to be alive, I wanted… and Spike was the only person I could feel anything with.  So I used him. Physically.  I used him so badly. But it was the only way I could – God, I can't make any sense of it even now."

"You're doing fine from over here," said Xander.  "You hated us, but you couldn't let yourself; you kinda hated him and that was okay, so you could just… he was your no-pressure guy, am I right?"

Buffy tipped her head in thought.  "Yeah, kinda," she said slowly.  "But then there was – he said he loved me.  He let me be horrible to him, because he could tell somehow that… I dunno… that I needed to be horrible to someone and he could take it?  Like that made it okay."

Xander cleared his throat, "Okay, not a girl here, and it's not like I want to know, but I'm guessing the sex was –"  He cleared his throat again.  "Um, you said he helped you feel… things… when you were numb.  I mean… okay, seriously, please shut me up."

She smiled. "I'll just say yes and save us both the terminal embarrassment."

"Thank you. Really, thank you."  They grinned at each other for a minute, then Buffy sighed.

"There's something else I need to explain," she said.  "You need to know this, okay?"

"Okay…" He shifted on the couch.

"So, that whole year was a mess, right? With me hating life, hating myself, going to him, using him to feel alive inside…" She laughed bitterly.  "He was a soulless, undead creature and he was more alive than I was that whole time," she said.  "And there was me, telling him what we were doing was horrible and that _he_ was horrible, and disgusting, and we could never do it again – and then I'd turn right around and run on back to him, sometimes the same damn day."  She looked up at her friend, chewing on her lip.  "You know that whole, 'she says no but she means yes' thing that some of the really skanky hos would pull in high school?"

Xander nodded.

"I did that to him pretty much nonstop," she said.  "And then I finally started to come back to life for real, and I tried to break it off with him, for real, and… he figured I was just telling him more of the same."

Xander sat up. "You're talking about the time he –"

"He was drunk when he came over," she said. "And he didn't get it.  He really thought I would come back to him if...  He told me he knew I felt something – and looking back on it now, I probably did and either I didn't realize, or I just couldn't admit it.  He always could see me better than I saw myself.  Anyway, he… yeah.  He told me he could prove I felt something, he was going to make me…"

"Buffy," said Xander.

She swallowed tears.  "I don't want to remember him like that," she whispered.  "I just need you to understand why I don't blame him, why I could forgive him and let him back in after that."

"I think I understand," he said eventually.  "But I'm guessing the soul helped, too, right?"

"Soul was a convenient excuse," she said. "I mean, think about it.  Who would be insane enough to change themselves that much, to go to those lengths to prove to me he loved me?  To prove that he would never try to hurt me like that again?"  She looked into her mug.  "Sometimes I feel like I broke him.  Like I drove him that crazy before he went and got his soul back, instead of the soul making him crazy after he came back to us."

"Came back to you," said Xander.

"Yeah," said Buffy.

"I couldn't let myself see it then, but you – at the end there, you really did love him, didn't you?"

Tears rolled down Buffy's cheeks.  "Yes. I did."  She sniffed.  "I think I still do.  Only it's too late now."

* * *

 

The first thing Spike noticed as he came around was that special kind of headache one can only get from having a cracked skull; not an experience he'd ever wanted to repeat, but there you go.  Knowing how much it would hurt to open his eyes, he tried to put it off for as long as he could, but eventually one eyelid pried itself open – the other seemed glued shut with crusted blood – and he let himself have a look around.

He was lying on his side, barefoot and missing his coat, with dirt gritting into the side of his face and his bare arm past the sleeve of his T-shirt.  His wrists were bound with some kind of wire or cable, and his arms were bent up in front of his face; felt like his ankles were tied as well. When he tested the restraints, though, not only did the wire not budge but he felt the stab of… what were those? He'd been tied with sodding barbed wire?

He writhed his wrists together and twisted his body, ignoring the barbs piercing his skin, as he tried to break free.  The effort was useless, but it did let him feel something else… Spike tried to raise his head, but the headache pushed him back down again.  Managed to peer between his elbows down at his body, and found himself wrapped from chest to hips in old, rusty chain.

What the bleeding hell?

The second thing Spike noticed was the humming.  Somewhere behind him someone was moving about, you could almost call it bustling, and humming cheerfully to themselves as they worked.  With an effort he managed to get himself turned over.

He was lying on the floor of a shed of some kind.  Near him was an open pit that smelled of water and dead leaves, over a faint reek of death and decay. Light came from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and a fluorescent tube over one workbench.  What he could see of that workbench was covered in flower pots and bags of soil and fertilizer, while a second held rolls of gift wrap, baskets, and ribbons and tape. Garden tools hung on one wall, including more than a few knives, pruning shears and other sharp-looking nasties.

And puttering about amid all that mess… Oh, right.  Figg.

Only that didn't make any sense.  Spike had recognized his type outside the convenience store when Figg had dropped his glamour; Indarra Lapur demons, while not too common, were generally harmless.  Left to their own devices, the vaguely sheep-like creatures tended to keep to their… flocks, maybe… plant gardens, and make baby Lapurs, and not much else.  They usually lived to about a hundred fifty years, give or take.

Maybe that was the key.  Spike thought he'd already met elderly Lapurs before this, but he was pretty sure he'd never seen one quite as old as Figg.  Certainly Figg's horns were nearly twice as long as the ones on the oldest Lapur Spike had met, and his eyes were bleached with age to a nearly silver color instead of their usual green.  Plus he knew he'd never met a demon with hair, of any species, that actually got old enough to go gray.  That was a mortal thing, people and natural animals; demons just didn't do that – but the coarse hair on Figg's noggin was completely white.

"Oi, mate," Spike called.  Too loudly.  God, his head hurt… he lowered his voice and tried again.  "Figg. Hey."

The humming stopped and the demon turned to face him.  "Oh," he beamed, "you're awake already.  Good, good."

"Yeah," said Spike.  "Care to tell a fella why you've got us all wound about in chains and such?"  He wriggled again, but the barbed wire didn't budge.

"Oh, never you mind about those," said Figg.  He grunted and worked his way down to kneel by Spike's head.  "You'll hardly even notice them, soon enough."  He leaned forward and patted Spike's bound hands; his palm was callused almost as hard as his horns.  "Nice young man like you, you'll make such good company, won't you?  And we can wait together."

Spike fought back a sigh.  First Drusilla, then that Slayer Dana, and now this.  How was it he always ended up with the nutters? 

"'M sure I will," said Spike carefully. "But what is it we're waiting for?"

"My family, of course," said Figg.  He pulled a lump of chalk out of the pocket of his overalls and started scratching it on the floor around Spike.  "Didn't I tell you?"

"Must've missed that," he said.  He looked at Figg warily through the eye that wasn't crusted shut.  "How's that work, then?"

"Well, they went away, you know," said Figg sadly, looking up from his work. "You know how it goes.  They leave, sometimes… family can be like that… but they'll come back.  They're my flock."  He shifted about on his knees, went back to marking the floor with his chalk.  "My wives, and kids, and their kids… little Maglia was the last to go, but she'll come back.  She loves her Grandpa.  Such a sweet little thing.  You'd like her."

"I'm sure I would," Spike said again. Even setting aside the whole bit with the wire and chain, he had a bad feeling about this. "Do you happen to know how long ago it was that she left?"

"Little Maglia?  Oh, that would have been, aught-four, aught-five, around in there somewhere I think… I've been waiting for awhile now, but they'll come."

Aught-four, thought Spike.  People didn't _use_ that term anymore.  "You mean, 1904?  Or was it 2004?"

Figg thought for a moment.  Blinked his greenish-silver eyes with the sideways pupils.  "Nineteen, I think.  I'm… not sure.  But she'll come."

It hurt too much to nod his head, but Spike tried his best to look like he was following along with the old man.  "And why did she leave you?"

"A fire," said Figg.  "She didn't want to, but there was… the barn caught fire."  He was blinking faster now, and his hands twitched. "But she'll come back.  They all will.  You'll see. They're good kids.  You'll see."

Oh, great.  His granddaughter and probably all the rest of his family "left" him – likely died – over a hundred years ago, and this bloke was old enough and senile enough that he was sure they'd come back.   How _did_ he always end up with the nutters? For that matter, how was the old goat still around for Spike to deal with?From what he could tell, Figg should be dead and in the ground by now, or back in his home dimension, or whatever it was that happened to the Indarra Lapurs when they were too old to go on living. 

How was Figg still alive, and what the bleeding hell was he up to?

"This… keeping you company," said Spike slowly. "What is it that I'd be doing, exactly?"

"Oh," said Figg. "Nothing much."  He sat Spike up, hauling on the chain around his torso, and dragged him sideways; centering him, Spike now saw, inside what was clearly meant to be a ritual circle. "It's just… the waiting gets hard, sometimes.  You know how it is, when they leave you.  Sometimes it's hard to keep going.  You get… lonely.  While you wait."  He smiled and patted Spike on the shoulder.  Spike tried not to wince.  "Nice young folks like you," he said, "you stay here with me.  You give me strength.  So I can keep waiting for my family."

"And how's that work, then?" asked Spike.

"Oh, you don't have to work," smiled Figg.  "I'll take care of everything."  He hoisted himself awkwardly to his feet again, brushing dirt off his knees.   "There's some words to say, and a circle I need to draw," he gestured to the floor where he'd scrawled his chalk symbols, "but I've done all that before.  And then there's the silk cord and the runes.  That part might hurt for a minute, but don't you worry, it'll pass quick as a wink."

Spike tugged on his bonds.  The barbed wire was making his wrists bleed, and for all Figg's apparent friendliness, he managed to hold himself just out of reach of Spike's elbows; of course, head-butting a guy with ram's horns on his head was out of the question even without a cracked skull.   He swallowed.

"Supposing I didn't want to stay very long," he said.  "What happens when it's time for me to leave?"

Figg chuckled.  "You young people," he said.  "People always say they can't stay, or don't want to help, but they always change their minds.  Once I'm done with the words for air, why, no one's ever complained after that."  Spike craned his neck and watched as the old demon rummaged behind the gift wrap on his workbench and pulled out a spool of red cord, and took a vicious looking little hooked knife down from the wall.  "I'm not worried," he said. "You'll change your mind.  You're such a nice young man.  You'll stay and keep me company.  You'll see."


	5. Prisoner, Houseguest

“Have to tell you, mate, pretty sure I’d rather not,” said Spike.  “Supposing you let me up and we talk about this over a beer first?”

“Pff, nonsense,” said Figg.  “Once the circle is started you have to finish it.  Everyone knows that.  It makes me tired, to do it.  I have to finish it or it will just wear me right out.  Then I wouldn’t be able to wait.  Might miss it if they came back. Can’t have that.”

Once the circle was started… _oh, bugger_.  Spike glanced around, and sure enough, he recognized some of the glyphs the Lapur had drawn.  Not all of them, but enough to know a binding ritual when he saw it. Now things were starting to make sense, but the picture Figg was painting looked nothing but ugly for Spike.

The ancient demon was going to bind Spike’s power to his own, and then siphon it off bit by bit. If he had to guess, other victims were probably what had kept Figg going long past his natural lifespan – and if Spike didn’t convince him to change his mind, before long he wouldn’t have the strength to keep from being next.  Because his strength would belong to Figg, and he’d be... probably not dead, not right away, but… hollowed out.  An empty shell with, at best, a mind trapped helplessly inside, unable to move or speak, possibly unable even to feel anything that happened to his effectively paralyzed body.

He might linger a while, if Figg thought to feed him occasionally, but even if he did… the spell was setting Spike up to be a battery powering Figg’s life, and eventually the battery would run dry.

Spike wondered if he’d be insane again by the time that happened.

“Listen, mate,” he tried, “the thing is, I don’t think it’s going to work.  Vampire, here; you’re wanting to use my life force or whatever, but ‘m already dead.”

“Oh, no,” said Figg, “that isn’t a problem.  Demons work much better for this.  Maybe because I’m a demon too.  Maybe because, well.  You know humans.  So fragile.”  He shook his shaggy head.  “They never last as long.”  He tipped his head for a moment.  “Or maybe it’s the soul that gets used up too quick.”

“Used up?” His soul was going to get _used up_?  Sodding hell.  “Souls don’t last as long?”

“That’s right,” said Figg.

“Well I’ve got a soul, so I’m no good for this,” said Spike frantically.  “You’ll need to find someone else to use in your circle.”

“Now,” Figg frowned, “you’re just complaining now.  That’s not nice.”

“No, ‘s true,” said Spike.  “Can’t you smell it, or see it?  Most demons can, you know.”

Figg squinted at him for a moment, then leaned in to sniff around Spike’s head.  Quick as he could, Spike swung his arms, trying to clip Figg on the back of his ancient head.

It didn’t work.

Figg startled, and Spike couldn’t tell if it was anger or just poor balance that shoved his fist straight into Spike’s ribcage, but it was like getting hit with a sledgehammer.  He felt bones break under the chains, and cried out at the sudden pain.

“That’s not nice!” shouted Figg.  “You’re not supposed to do things like that!”  Ribs slid and clicked in horrible ways as Figg yanked Spike’s arms up over his head.  He muttered under his breath angrily, and wrapped a loop of red cord around Spike’s thumbs…

…and just like that Spike’s arms were weighted down, impossible to move.  He tugged as hard as he could, gritting his teeth against the pain, but where his thumbs touched the earth they might as well have been bolted to the floor for all the good it did him.  He stretched his fingers, trying to catch the loop of cord, but it didn’t budge and only made his hands tingle whenever he managed to touch it.

“I’m trying to tell you, Figg,” Spike rasped, “it’s no good.  Ritual won’t work, I’m tellin’ you.”

“That’s not true,” said the old demon, moving to Spike’s feet.  “It will work.  It always works. You’ll see.”

Spike jerked his legs back out of Figg’s reach, hissing as the motion jarred his ribs.  “Your family – you’re waiting for them but they’re not going to come, Figg.  Figg, listen to me!”

“My family will come!” Figg growled.  “They’ll come, you’re wrong, they’re coming, I just need to –“

“Your family is dead!”

Figg shot to his feet, his bestial eyes rolling so the whites showed in his rage.  He gave a sort of bleating wail.

“They’re dead, Figg,” panted Spike. “I’m sorry but it’s true –“

“—no, no, no—“

“—the fire, you said there was a fire, they’re not coming back because they’re all _dead_ —”

“They’re not!”

“They’re dead and you’re meant to be too!”

Figg wailed again and tossed his head back and forth.  He dropped to his knees and slammed his forehead into Spike’s bent knees, an angry ram butting furiously against his opponent.

Bone snapped, and Spike screamed.

He still hadn’t gotten his breath back by the time the old demon finished tying a loop of red cord between his big toes, another impossibly heavy anchor, pinning his legs in place.

_Oh, bugger._

That was the beginning.  Figg’s ritual, wherever he’d gotten it, was bloody thorough; covered all four elements, and his demon, _and_ his soul.  Spike had no idea how he might manage to break it long enough to escape.

First was earth: red silken cord wound around not only his thumbs and toes, but also woven through the barbed wire on his ankles and wrists, again around his upper arms and thighs, and finally around his waist.  When it was done he couldn’t move a muscle from his neck down, not even to turn his head.  Didn’t offer any resistance, couldn’t, when Figg took a pair of heavy pruning shears and cut his clothes off him, piece by bloody piece.  That big rusty chain was just shoved up and down his body whenever Figg needed to get at a different spot.  Murder on his ribs, and Spike thought he might cry when the heavy coils landed across his broken kneecap.

Figg wasn’t listening to a word he said anymore.  Didn’t even react to his shouts and curses of pain; he was in another place altogether, focused entirely on completing the ritual and rendering Spike helpless.

As if that wasn’t enough, the bloody runes Figg had mentioned hurt for much longer than the “just a minute” he’d promised, being as they were _carved into him_ with the hooked knife Figg had brought down off the wall earlier.  For earth, the carving started on his shins and forearms, and then Figg just worked his way inward for each element after that.  After binding Spike with one element, the spell was sealed into his naked sodding flesh, and as the words were spoken the sigils would glow for an instant and Spike’s skin would ignite in searing pain.  The burn was magical rather than physical, but it still hurt so much that he kept expecting to see or smell smoke rising from the marks Figg made.

Air came next, and Spike discovered why Figg claimed that his victims “changed their minds”, and stopped complaining once he’d spoken the words – because Figg wrapped red cord loosely about his throat, spoke the words, and just like that Spike could no longer breathe.  It wasn’t that the air was gone so much as his lungs and throat were frozen – he couldn’t inhale, couldn’t exhale, couldn’t move any air at all to try and speak.

Spike was screaming on the inside, when Figg carved the sigils across Spike’s upper arms and thighs; but on the outside, though his eyes were wide with pain and horror, he was utterly silent.

For fire, Figg pried Spike’s mouth open and somehow managed to wind cord around his sodding tongue; another length ended up tied around his cock, of all places, and Spike shuddered inwardly at the violation – though he couldn’t decide whether the John Thomas was worse than the hideous intimacy of someone messing about with his tongue.  Apparently demons were connected to fire, because after that Figg pulled black cord from his workbench, and used it to bind the vampire within him.  Black cord stretched from one shoulder, down his torso along both front and back, to crisscross between his legs and come up to the other shoulder.

Spike couldn’t have brought his game face up anyway, being paralyzed, but now he could feel the demon quail within him, cowering away from the cord and the runes that ran along his center from throat to groin.  He was reminded of the time that cowardly bastard Robin Wood had used the First Evil’s trigger to force his demon to come out and play, only now Figg was forcing it somehow deeper _in_ , and the sensation made his skin crawl.

Where demons were associated with fire, it seemed that the soul was associated with water.  Figg used white cord for that, wrapping it about his chest three times and finishing it with an elaborate knot tied directly over his heart.  The carving this time wrapped across his chest just above his nipples and around his sides to meet in the middle of his back.  Figg just rolled him from one side to the other, heedless of his ribs, and kept on cutting.  Christ, it hurt, more than all the rest put together.  Tears leaked from Spike’s eyes and his body twitched involuntarily in agony.

When he was done, though, Spike realized he was feeling strangely detached from what was happening to him.  He knew he should be angry, but that faded as the demon was bound; should be afraid, but with the soul wound about in words and white silk, he discovered it was surprisingly difficult to make himself care at all.

The last red cord went around Spike’s head across his eyes, and sound and sight vanished.

Not the pain, though.  He could still feel.  He could feel the incised runes burning in his skin, and his own blood trickling into the dirt, especially clearly.

Felt it when Figg brought Spike’s arms down from over his head; felt it when he began shoving the chain around again, spreading it out so that it coiled now from ankle to neck, pinning his legs together and holding his arms fast to his sides. Definitely felt the final portion of the binding ritual, where Figg carved large, elaborate sigils into the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet, each one leaving Spike weaker and more distant from his body.  The pain was so excruciating, again, that he managed to twitch against his bonds once or twice, but he was incapable of doing more.

Spike felt it, too, when Figg dragged him across the dirt floor and rolled him into the cistern in the corner of the potting shed.  Felt himself falling, felt the splash and the cold rise up to cover his head, felt the air bubbling out as the water trickled into his mouth, his nose, his lungs; felt the heavy chain pull him down into slime and decay, finally to rest half-buried in the oozing muck creeping between his toes and fingers, into his hair and ears and teeth.

He felt the stirred-up mud settle into stillness around him.  He felt nothing else for a very long time.

* * *

 

It took the better part of a week for Buffy to get past her jetlag, which turned out to be a mixed blessing.  On the one hand her body was finally back on an American schedule instead of being stuck somewhere over the Atlantic whenever it came time to eat or sleep; on the other, she’d been using the stress on her system as a convenient excuse for all the weepy-Buffy she’d been showing around Xander’s place since – well, since the minute she got off the plane, as far as she could tell.

Case in point – the night she arrived, Xander had taken her suitcase and shown her to the room he’d set aside for her, and she’d nearly burst into tears all over again because… it was empty.

“No, no, it’s a good thing,” she insisted. “You know how every hotel room you go to always has these paintings and, and curtains and everything, and it’s nice but you can never forget that it isn’t really yours?”  She tossed her jacket on the bed.  “This – this room doesn’t belong to anyone else. This looks like it could be mine, if I let it.” She looked over her shoulder to where Xander waited in the doorway.  “It’s been so long since I’ve had a space that belonged to just me, I can’t even remember having a real _home_ since Sunnydale.  You know?”

And he did.  Just smiled and handed her a set of clean towels and a spare set of bed sheets, and asked her not to hog the fabric softener whenever she got around to doing her laundry.  Buffy could have kissed him – she settled for another bear hug.

During the days after that, Xander seemed to be completely understanding about everything she said, everything she did or seemed to be feeling – which was kind of a new look on him, when Buffy stopped to think about it.  Whether it was the grief he’d gone through himself over losing Anya, or maybe all the quiet time he’d had on his own while traveling across Africa, she didn’t know, but something had happened to profoundly change Xander’s worldview.  Or, maybe it would be more accurate to say something had brought out the understanding, empathetic friend she’d always had, and finally shut down the close-minded, angry, jealous guy that used to get in the way.

All Buffy knew was that right now, he was exactly the friend she needed.  She was in mourning all over again, and the pain left her just barely in shape to stand on her own; she sure as hell didn’t have the strength to justify herself to everyone she ran into, every time she turned around.  Xander didn’t make any demands on her, and she was profoundly grateful.  He just made room for her to be herself, no matter how weird she got.

Which was good, because things around her started getting pretty weird, right around the first time she set foot outside Xander’s house.  She decided to go for an early-morning jog, and this random stranger walking his dog looked her dead in the face and said “go to him” like she’d have any idea what he was talking about.

“Huh?” she said, squinting at him in the sunlight.

“Uh – good morning?” said the guy.  “Sorry.”  Followed his little yappy dog down the sidewalk.

Buffy kept going, and when she got to the park, there were some kids playing around the drinking fountain where she stopped to catch her breath.  One of them said “go to him” before skipping off with his friends, and another giggled and said “he needs you”, with water from the fountain dripping off her chin.

Weird.


	6. Dreaming, Drowning

The weirdness-while-jogging happened the first time she went outside, maybe three or four days after she’d come back to the States.  Buffy had spent those first days adjusting and settling in, getting back on US time and trying to set herself up in her new life – one that was an easy commute from the Hellmouth instead of right on top of it.

During her nights she tossed and turned, still off-schedule, and irritated herself with the tears and the hugging her pillow and the ache in her heart that wouldn’t go away, that pain of missing someone she’d thought dead for a year. Tried to get herself over her rage at Giles.  Failed spectacularly, only making herself angrier whenever she thought about the – the _shit_ he’d pulled.

She liked the days better.  She could distract herself from all that during the days.

The second time Buffy went out, to pick up shampoo and a few groceries, the store manager approached her and told her, “He needs your help.”  Only when she looked at him in confusion, all he did was blink at her and say, “Can I help you find anything?” with that tone that implied, I’ve said this to you already but you weren’t paying attention, you ditz you.

The third day she stayed home and watched a little TV, only it seemed that every show she clicked on had someone in it saying “he needs you” or “go to him” or some other variation on the theme.  Over a bowl of ice cream, she idly wondered if there was really some kind of mystical message there for her, or if it was just kind of like buying a mini-van – you know, that thing that happens where you never really notice them on the road until you own one yourself, and then suddenly it seems like they’re everywhere? Maybe it was like that.

That night she dreamed.

She was out jogging again, and Spike was beside her in the sun, wearing these powder-blue sweats that looked kinda dippy on him, only when she went to tell him so he dropped out of sight.  She went back a couple steps and found him, in his regular black outfit, hands in his pockets, looking up at her from a hole in the sidewalk.  She found she was kneeling, so she reached a hand down to pull him out again, and nearly got her hand taken off by the bars that slammed across the opening out of nowhere.

“It’s all right,” said Giles, standing next to her.  “He isn’t really there, you know.”

Buffy looked down at the hole in the sidewalk.  Spike certainly was there, reaching for her through the bars, just barely able to poke his fingers through.  His mouth moved but she couldn’t hear what he was saying, and then his fingers slipped away and he sank under the water – or maybe she did – and then she was waking up to an annoyingly cheerful bird singing outside her window.

Buffy yawned and padded her way to the shower, frowning.  It was one of those dreams where she couldn’t quite tell if it was Slayer-y weird or just regular weird; unusually vivid, sure, but there had been nothing involving an apocalypse that she could see.  Maybe she’d talk about it with Xander when he got home from work.

In the meantime she needed to get around for her first day driving into Cleveland; she wasn’t due to start working at the “Slayer Center,” or whatever they were really calling it, until next week, but she wanted to stop in anyway and get her bearings, maybe feel out the rest of the staff a little.

She could have sworn she saw a black De Soto, just like Spike’s old car, along I-80 as she was looking for her exit.

It hurt.

* * *

 

There’s something most people don’t know about vampires.

Among those few humans who know that they’re real, it’s generally accepted that the vampire is a type of demon that animates and preserves a human corpse. The enhanced strength and speed, the uncanny hearing and eyesight, those are pretty much common knowledge, too.  But there’s something the vampires don’t like mortals to know about, a potential weakness they have that can be summed up in three simple words:

_The body remembers._

Sure, the body is dead, technically.  There’s no pulse, no need to breathe, no actual digestion of the blood a vampire eats (you ever heard of a vampire scarpering off to visit the loo, mate? Didn’t think so).  The demon handles all that so the body doesn’t have to.

But the body _remembers_ , in a way, what it was like to be alive.  The demon preserves it at its exact state at the moment of death – give a vamp a haircut and the hair will grow back, but never past the length it was when the vampire was first sired.  Same thing with injuries – even broken bones don’t have to be set right in order to eventually grow straight, although the healing certainly goes easier and quicker if you do.  A vampire’s body will never age past the point when it died, never become ill, never have to cope with a wound getting infected before it can heal.  The demon can ignore drugging and poisons, or choose to allow them to affect the body – otherwise it would be impossible to get drunk no matter how many bottles of tequila a vampire bloke might choose to knock back. 

Those are the strengths that come with the body’s memory, and again, most people who study vampires know about them.  But there’s more to it than that, another side to that memory, which never occurs to most of those people.

For example, yeah, a fledgling vampire can eventually learn to ignore pain once it figures out how much more quickly the body heals, but a broken leg still hurts just as much for an undead vamp as it does for a living human.  No, a corpse has no need to exchange oxygen for carbon dioxide, but air has to move in order for the vamp to speak – so the body remembers how to breathe, and here’s the kicker, it also remembers the need to do so in times of stress.

The body remembers sex, and the good old fight or flight instincts.  The heart will beat for both, though only for moments at a time – oi, how else is a man supposed to get hard when he’s a vamp, yeah? – and it’s usually bloody painful to feel that fist-sized dead muscle suddenly start squeezing in the middle of your chest when it’s been sitting quiet as a mouse for months on end.

A vampire’s body _remembers_ , and right at the moment, Spike’s body was remembering what it felt like to drown.

Water isn’t meant to be inside living lungs, and it bloody well hurts when it gets in there and doesn’t come back out again.  With his body held so completely paralyzed, Spike couldn’t cough or choke the water out, couldn’t thrash in his chains, couldn’t even try to inhale, to get air, to make the feeling bloody _stop_.  He could only hang suspended in a welter of agony and instinctual terror, the spasms of his panicked heart the only motion he was capable of.

The worst part was that the feeling had been going on forever, without knocking him unconscious – didn’t actually need to breathe, after all, couldn’t really drown – and without letting up in its intensity.  The body remembered drowning and remembered the need to escape, and the body was sodding trapped in an endless loop as it tried to cope with the sensations.

Spike thought he might have been drowning for days.

It was a shock, then, when he felt someone grab and lift him up out of the water and fling him onto solid ground.  Whoever it was dragged him across grit and gravel until he was clear of the cistern.  Then they shoved powerful, callused hands into his stomach and his broken ribs, and along with the pain of bone grating against bone he felt water gushing out of his nose and mouth.  The relief was immense. 

Granted, it still felt like he was suffocating since he couldn’t actually draw breath, but getting the water out helped all the same. 

Distantly, underneath the layers of the binding spell on him, Spike thought he might almost feel hope.  Perhaps he was being rescued?

Whoever it was did something inside his mouth – Spike faintly remembered the cord wrapped around his tongue – and out of nowhere his hunger came roaring to life.  Instantly, he needed blood, _craved_ it with a raging intensity he hadn’t suffered since he was first fledged.  If he were able to speak he’d have begged for it in that moment.  He was famished, starving, shriveled with hunger, someone please bring him somebody to eat, please, blood by the quart, anything, he didn’t care, he had to –

Something was pushed into his mouth.  His tongue thrust forward, his jaw working desperately as he bit down and suckled –

A plastic bag.  Blood inside.  Cold, rancid, stale.  Didn’t bloody care.

Spike drank it all, gulping and swallowing convulsively, trying to take it all in as fast as he could, and when it was gone he nearly wept in desperation.  It wasn’t enough.  He needed more, _had_ to have more, needed it _now_.  He was rescued.  Someone had found him and was caring for him, they’d take the chains off any second now, surely his saviors would bring him more to eat, would see how badly he needed it?

It felt like a hand caressed his cheek.  He’d have leaned into it if he could have.  Instead, though, the hand opened his mouth for him again, and he stuck out his tongue and licked, desperately hoping to feel more blood sliding down his throat – but no.  Oh, no.

There was cord, winding around his tongue again.  Spike tried to bite down, to pull away, to swallow but the ability to move his mouth disappeared again as the binding settled back into place.  His hunger vanished as well, fading off into some distant place that was unimportant wherever Spike was.  It just… didn’t matter anymore.

Hands at his armpits dragged him back across the floor.  Hands at his shoulders rolled him sideways, and then he was falling again.  Spike felt the splash and the cold, once again felt air bubble out of his hollow chest as water trickled in and his weighted corpse sank into the muck.  Felt himself begin to drown, again.  His heart lurched inside its cage of bone; once, twice.

It hurt.

 


	7. Messages, Memories

By the time Buffy made it home that evening, she felt like she was fraying at the seams; it was only a matter of time, she was pretty sure, before she just quietly shredded apart into a little heap of Buffy-scraps and landed on the floor, never to get up again.  She wasn’t completely certain that it’d be a bad thing if she did.

Those weird minivan-messages?  Not so much with the minivan, more with the mystical after all.

She’d gone to the Slayer Center, as planned – it had an official name, some kind of martial arts studio, but only the paying customers used it – and in between poking around the place and getting to know the rest of the staff, she’d heard from no less than four different girls that there was some guy who needed her, and that she needed to go to him. 

They’d been having dreams, some of them.  One girl who played a lot of chess in her spare time had a lot to say about the Queen, the Queen’s Knight, and how the Queen’s Bishop wasn’t moving the way he should, so she kicked him off the chessboard.  All of which would have been fine, except that another baby Slayer just had to mention that “queen’s knight” was another way of describing the queen’s champion at jousts and stuff back in the old days.

Champion.  Buffy’s stomach clenched into a tight little knot every time she so much as thought the word.

Buffy’s entire day pretty much went downhill to Suckville from there.  Between the leather duster she saw someone wearing at lunchtime, a bleach-blond punk guy she thought she saw, and yet more phrases eavesdropped or misheard to sound like “he needs you”, it felt like her usual strong-Buffy façade was being chipped apart by memories, glimpses, of Spike.

The last straw finally landed after she got back to Toledo.  She’d found her way back to Xander’s (and only got lost once, yay for Buffy), parked the car, and as she was walking up the sidewalk heard the ring of metal hitting pavement just in front of the house.  A beat-up old truck, rattling by with its bed full of mattress springs and scrap metal, had hit a bump and lost something, something that jangled and clanged its way over to the curb by the mailbox.

Buffy went to pick it up, and found herself holding a battered railroad spike.

The tears that came then were impossible to stop.  Buffy couldn’t see to get her key in the lock, so she sat on the front step weeping, fighting it and sobbing anyway, and turning the spike over and over in her hands until Xander showed up a little while later.

“Hey, I’m glad you’re home,” he said, practically jogging up the sidewalk, “I think we need… to…” He stopped short, getting a good look at her in the fading light.  “Buffy?”

She sniffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.  “Xander,” she said, not taking her eyes off the railroad spike in her hand, “I think we need to talk.”

Xander’s eyebrows went up.  “I was just going to say the same thing,” he said.  “Um, also – are you okay? Or is that a dumb question?”

Buffy gave a soggy sort of chuckle.  “I’m – no,” she said, “I really don’t think I am.”  Something she’d never allowed herself to admit before, at least, not to any of the old Scooby gang.  Spike, on the other hand… Buffy pulled herself away from the thought before she could break down again.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Xander’s feet freeze in place. Must have surprised him, too.

“Come on inside,” was all he said.

Xander didn’t say anything else while she cleaned up and he changed out of his work clothes.  He kept quiet while pulling leftovers out of the fridge, and ate dinner beside her without a word.  The silence could have been unnerving, but Buffy found it soothing.  It gave her time to pull herself back together again.

Finally, she started clearing the table and he put on a pot of coffee.  Glanced over his shoulder and said, “Do you want to go first, or should I?”

I’ll go,” she replied.  “Just let me find, like, two boxes of tissues first – I’ve been a mess all day, I swear.”

And then they were back on the couch and Buffy was telling him everything that happened, all about her dream, the crazy coincidences that followed her around all day, and finally she held out the railroad spike for him to look at.

“It’s like – when he died – when I thought he died, I mean, when – that first time…” she stopped, huffed out a breath.  “God, I thought I’d gone through all this once already. At the Hellmouth.  Right after that.  It seemed like I kept seeing Spike-things every time I turned around.  And I guess… at first I thought this was just more of that, you know?  But between the dreams and _this_ thing,” she set the spike on the coffee table, “now I’m pretty sure it isn’t – more of the same, I mean.”  She finally looked up at Xander.  “I’m getting the feeling that this is less with the coincidences and more with the… the cosmic two-by-four.”

Xander took a deep breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh.  “Yeah… you aren’t going to like this,” he said.

Buffy’s eyes widened.  “Oh, don’t tell me.”

Xander just looked at her over the top of his mug.  “That two-by-four?  Yeah.  Guess what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Buffy blinked.  Blinked again.  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

Xander shook his head.  “Nope – sorry.  See, we have this girl, a demon, who works for us on second shift.  She’s psychic – we hired her after she tried to get us to repair some fire damage that hadn’t happened yet – yeah, not relevant, sorry.”  He sipped his coffee.  “So, a couple hours ago, she showed up for work, took one look at me, and started talking about _you_ – a lot.  She just about bullied me into inviting her over to give you a reading.  She said it was important – and she kept mentioning “he” a lot.”

Buffy put her head in her hands.

“Anyway, I told her I’d ask you if it was okay and call her back.”  He took a deep breath.  “So.  Is it okay?”

“I guess it’ll have to be,” said Buffy tiredly.  “I get the feeling saying ‘no’ will just get me smacked harder.”

“Smacked?” asked Xander.

“Cosmic two-by-four,” said Buffy.  “Really rather not see what the cosmic sledgehammer looks like.”  She sighed, fidgeted with her mug.  “The only thing I don’t get is who ‘he’ is supposed to be.  I mean, all this stuff about Spike is… great… I guess.  But Spike’s –“ she swallowed hard, forced her voice to behave.  “Spike’s… gone.” Swallowed again, took a deep breath.  “The only other ‘hims’ left in my life would be you, and Giles.  And honestly, if it’s Giles?  I’m gonna need some convincing to go help him.”

“Well, maybe this reading will show us that,” said Xander with a tentative shrug.

Buffy closed her eyes.  “It better,” she said.

 

Spike was adrift.

His body, or maybe it was his demon, had finally reached the point of exhaustion, and if he wasn’t quite sleeping, he was no longer truly conscious either.  Both his demon and his soul had withdrawn far inward, away from the constant signals of terror and pain coming from his tormented body.  Now the world consisted of Spike and his thoughts, and his mind floated aimlessly through whatever images his subconscious chose to dredge up for his viewing pleasure.

Pleasure. Right.

Over a century bathing in the blood of innocents – well, feeding on them, anyway – did not build up much in the way of cheerful scenery, not as far as his soul was concerned.  His demon could reminisce fondly on the things he’d done; his soul could only cringe and pray for a forgiveness to which he could never be entitled.

There were other dreams, though.  When he wasn’t dwelling on the deeds of his past, his weary mind sought refuge in memories of the Slayer.  Never mind that there were now hundreds of them around the world; for Spike there would only ever be One Chosen.  She’d believed in him during a time when he no longer knew how to believe in himself – her belief had given him strength to endure far more hateful, more personal torture than this.  His love for her had given him the strength to resist the demands of an angry Hellgod, for her sake, to protect her.

The ordeal he faced now wasn’t founded in hatred, wasn’t about tempting him away from the good, wasn’t even about him at all.  He couldn’t decide whether that made it easier to bear, or harder.

Didn’t matter, though; he would endure, because that was what Spike did.  Adapt to circumstances where he could, endure them where he couldn’t.  Make it out the other side, full of piss and vinegar and ready to take on the world again, just for the challenge of it.

Even so, Spike couldn’t help but wonder, distantly, if Buffy still would believe in him today, worn and weary as he was after grinding through a year at Angel’s side.  For all intents and purposes he’d worked for Evil, Incorporated – even been their property for a little while, before he’d got his body back.  Would she still see goodness inside him?  Could she?  He thought probably not.  Not that it mattered; far as she knew he’d died the final death in Sunnydale, never to return.   There wasn’t anything left of him for her to believe in, dead and dusted like that, was there?

He floated through image after image of her, smiling, angry, naked in his bed, threatening to stake him, fighting by his side.  God, she was beautiful.  He longed for her, just to see her again, to know she was happy and moving on with her life.  He wouldn’t interfere; wouldn’t even show her he still existed, wouldn’t inflict himself on her world like that.

Not that he could, just at the moment.

 _Don’t think of that_ , he warned himself.  Spike mentally gritted his teeth, fighting to stay below the surface, away from the pain, for just a little longer.

Adapt or endure, Willy old boy.  Adapt or endure.  He would endure this, he decided, for her.  He would come out the other side, full of piss and vinegar, just so he could find Buffy afterward and know for certain that she was all right.

 _Endure it, William_ , he thought.  _For her._

 

Buffy found herself strangely nervous upon meeting Xander’s employee; it had been a long time, she realized, since she’d been face-to-face with someone who was so obviously a demon, without it trying to kill her.  Or vice versa, she thought with a wince.

The demon called herself Tser Moduce, and insisted for some reason on spelling it for Buffy: Zer Moduz.  She wasn’t much bigger than a fifth-grader, and with her magic necklace on, the illusion it carried made her look not much older than one.  Once she took off the amulet, though, she had shimmering, scaly indigo-blue skin, large eyes that reflected orange from the table lamp by the couch, and “hair” made out of elongated scales in white and ice-blue that clicked against each other whenever she moved her head.

Made her blouse and jeans look _really_ strange on her, without the glamour on.

It helped that Moduz was obviously just as nervous to meet Buffy, although it was anyone’s guess whether that was because she was talking to The Slayer or because she was standing in her boss’s home after hours.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said.  The slightest lisp around tiny, pointed teeth.

“Well, you said it was important,” said Buffy.  “And… I’ve been having some weird stuff happen lately.”

The demon crinkled her eyes in amusement.  “Do not weird things happen always around the Slayer?” she asked.

Buffy shrugged.  “Weird even for me.”  She drew her knees up under her chin.  “’He needs you. Go to him.’ I’ve been getting that, over and over.  But I don’t know who ‘he’ is supposed to be.”

“Do you not?” asked Moduz, tilting her head nearly sideways.  “Your messages are not clear?”

Buffy chewed her lip, looked away. “I know who they _seem_ to be talking about,” she hedged, “but he…  I thought he was dead a year ago, but I just found out he… died… more recently.” Gritted her teeth against the tears she was getting sick of shedding.

“And if he did not?” Tipped her head the other way.  Creepy without meaning to be.

Buffy shivered.  “Is that what you see?” she whispered.

Orange eyes blinked closed. “I am not so skilled,” she said. “My sister who in Chicago lives, she can see such things.  I only have… flashes.”  She opened her eyes, looked directly at Buffy.  “But my flashes say that he is yours, and that you know him very well.  That you love him, and that he is lost.”

“Lost,” said Buffy bitterly.  “As in dead.”

“Perhaps, but perhaps not,” Moduz said.  She paused, took a sip from the mug Xander offered.  “My flashes say also that you need one another badly. Can one who is dead still need you?” Another sip, while Buffy sat frozen. “My flashes say the most that I should read for you.  I have brought my things, my runes and cards.  Will you let me – read for you?  It can only help to know, can it not?”

Buffy took a shaky breath, let it out.  “Yeah,” she said.  “Yeah, I guess I better know for sure.”


	8. Void, Stones

Figg hummed to himself contentedly, moving among the rows in the vegetable greenhouse.  He had his clippers in hand, his basket under one arm, and a contented heart, and really, what more could anybody ask for?  The tomatoes were coming along nicely this year – it was looking like he’d probably end up with a bigger crop this time around than he did last season – and the early beans were almost ready to harvest, he thought; likely do well at the farmer’s market in another month or so.  He dropped another handful of clippings into his basket, picked a few bugs off the leaves.  It didn’t do to spray the vegetables the way some growers did, he thought. If you couldn’t grow veggies without help like that, why, you could hardly call yourself a gardener at all, now could you?

It was a beautiful day, not too windy outside the greenhouse and not too hot inside under the glass.  He could see birds outside picking through the brush pile; here indoors, there were a handful of butterflies making the rounds in the flower greenhouse.  A day like today, a demon couldn’t help but feel optimistic; it was a good day for gardening and a good day for travel.  A perfect day for family to come visit.  They’d come today.  He was sure of it.

And speaking of visitors, he had his company to thank for helping him wait.  That nice young man he’d met at the Quik-E-Mart was so strong for him, such a help with the long task of waiting for his family to come; Figg was more grateful to that fellow than he could even put into words.  Mind you, it hadn’t been nice of him to say some of those things he’d said, there at the beginning when Figg was still making the chalk marks and getting the silk cord ready.  The idea that Figg’s family would be… that they were… well, it just wasn’t true, that was all, and unkind of the young man to say such things.  But he’d settled down soon enough, the way Figg knew he would, and now, Figg figured he could willingly forgive him for whatever he might have said, there at the start of things.

Figg could feel him now, after all, now that the circle was done and nearly a week had passed – could feel the young man’s strength and the heart that it came from, and well… Figg understood, that was all.   Poor thing; Figg couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, a little.  He was so young to have a heart so full of pain; too young, for sure, to feel the kind of loneliness he had creeping around in there, so deep and bitter you could almost taste it.  Figg knew the type – some people could do all right on their own, but there were others who just plain needed to be with those who loved them.

That right there, Figg could tell, that right there was a young man who needed his people around him, and the sad thing was, it looked like he didn’t have them; maybe hadn’t for a long time.  Maybe didn’t know where they were anymore.

Figg understood about that.

The old demon could go on, tell you stories till the sun went down, but the long and the short of it was, Figg could feel the pain the young man carried, and with a heart like that, well, it only made sense he’d say things that weren’t very nice, from time to time.  A decent man was willing to forgive a little, when that happened.

Figg liked to think of himself as a decent man.  Well, a decent demon, anyway.

Besides, he thought, he was pretty darn lucky that he didn’t have the kind of problems that the young man obviously did.  Figg’s family was coming for him, after all.  Any day now, they’d be here, and Figg would be ready for them, and it was all thanks to his young visitor.

He’d have to remember to stop by the butcher shop again, next time he went into town, see if the young man wouldn’t mind another bit of blood as a thank-you present.  He remembered his visitor was a vampire, and vampires liked blood.  He remembered that.  Last time he brought blood, a few days back, the young man had seemed grateful, although he hadn’t said anything; Figg thought for sure he could even feel a bit of extra strength flow into him after he’d shared his surprise with him.

His basket of clippings was full, he noticed.  He had to dump those into the cistern anyway; now might be a good time to go ahead and check on the young man, too, see how he was doing.  Maybe let him know that Figg’s family would be here any day now, and he wouldn’t have to help him wait much longer.

Why, then the young man could maybe go and look for his people too; Figg would be sure to suggest it, he thought the fellow might like that.

 

 

In Spike’s dream, he was alone.

There was nothing and no one around him, no pain, no dream monsters or hellish beasts, nothing attacking him.  Nothing to fear.  The world was without form, and void.  Nothing existed except for him.

Spike was pretty sure he was having a nightmare.

He might never tell anyone else – _ever_ – but here in the depths of his own mind, where he had only his thoughts for company, Spike could admit it: He hated being alone.  Hated it, and in the past hundred-odd years, had never, ever done well with it.  He’d tried before, God help him he’d tried, but if he were lucky, he might, _might_ , get a few good months on his own, maybe a year or two – and after that, it would all go to hell for him, every time.

For some people, solitude might be a way of life; for Spike it was only ever a temporary thing.

Last time he’d tried to make a go of things on his own, Spike had ended up in Sunnydale, toy of the Initiative and pathetic buggering hanger-on round the edges of the Sodding Scooby Gang; so desperate to have a family again – to belong to a pack even as the omega, just to bloody _belong_ – that he’d submitted himself willingly to their humiliations and their mockery and their sodding hatred and hadn’t even realized he was doing it the whole bloody time.   And that was only the most recent example; the less said about the time he’d spent under the Third Reich, the better.

That’s right, kiddies; the Big Bad, Slayer of Slayers, William the Bloody – however much he might deny it or fight it or rail against it – one of the most badass vampires ever to catch the bloody Council’s attention _needed not to be alone_.

William the Bloody Ponce, that’s what he was.

And just look what it had gotten him _this_ time round, yeah?  Fleeing a mini-apocalypse, here he was trying to find Buffy because of some magical mystical messages that might not even be real, might be only his own imagination trying to find him someone to be with again.  Bloody pathetic.

And what happened after that?  He’d gone and gotten himself clubbed over the head with a sodding shovel, hadn’t he?  Caught and bound into a ritual that would likely kill him, and all that by a cheerful bloody old fart of a demon who was sodding insane and wanted Spike to help him wait for a bunch of sodding dead people who were never sodding coming.  Bloody typical, wasn’t it?

Yes.  Absolutely.  Because a Spike alone meant a Spike just waiting to get himself buggered by someone, sooner or later.  Sodding matter of time is what it was.

Spike not-alone may have meant he was still someone’s bitch, but at least then he was putting himself through the wringer of his own free will, rather than having someone else do it for him.  At least then it had something to do with Spike as a person, instead of him being just the most convenient body, nothing more than another undead bloody rat in the maze.

So now here he was, in the middle of all that, and the scariest dream his mind could throw at him had him standing in the middle of nowhere, doing nothing, with no one around, and he was doing his best not to be bloody terrified, because he was bloody _alone_.

 _Yes, thank you, subconscious,_ he thought, _pretty sure we get the message, you can sod off now._

As if that ever worked.

“My poor William,” he heard someone say, “you’ve gotten yourself lost again, haven’t you?”

Out of the shapeless gray fog he saw someone approaching.  Well, that was new.

“Here you are,” she said.  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.  My poor, sweet William.”

Spike frowned, peering into the fog.  Squinted.  Tipped his head in confusion.

“Drusilla?”

 

 

“What do I have to do?”  Buffy set her mug down on the coffee table and curled her legs up under her.  She was a little nervous, more resigned and sad, but most of all she just felt tired, in body and spirit.  Holding it together for too many hours without a break, when all she wanted was to go cry into her pillow some more.

The little demon looked at her for a moment, orange eyes glinting in the lamplight.  “You are afraid of what the reading may show you?”

Buffy shook her head with a sigh.  “No,” she said.  “I’m mostly just tired of feeling like – like I’m only here to be messed with by other people, or whatever… the universe, the Powers That Be.  Manipulated.” She rubbed her eyes, annoyed.  “I mean, I came back here, to the US, to start over, to get away from all of that, you know?  And pretty much as soon as I get off the plane I start getting these stupid messages.  It’s like, oh no, Buffy, you don’t get to rest, you don’t get to start over, we’re not done pulling on your chain.” She threw her hands into the air.  “You don’t even get to, to grieve and be done with it – no, not you, Buffy.  We have more hoops for you to jump through, Buffy.  Sit up, Buffy, roll over, Buffy!”

She stopped with a huff, reached for the box of tissues.  “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.  “I don’t mean to take it out on you.  But this kind of thing is just… it seems like it goes on with me all the time, and honestly?  I’m really over it.”

“There is no need to apologize,” said Moduz.  “The duties of a Slayer can be heavy to bear.  And also you are sad for the loss of someone you loved, is that not so?”  She tipped her head thoughtfully as Buffy looked away.  “If it is helpful, I do not think that the messages being sent to us are a part of your work as the Slayer.”

“I suppose that’s kind of a relief,” Buffy sighed.  “Either way, I may as well get this over with – so what do I have to do? ‘Cause there’s always something.”  She smiled wryly.

“I have many tools,” Moduz said, reaching for her bag.  “The most simple reading only requires you to ask the question, and the rest of the work is for me to do.  But there are other readings I can give.  If you do not know what to ask, or if you want clearer answers, the best is to use the stones.  They are like human runes, a little.  For that, though, I need a drop of your blood on the question stone, here.”  In her palm, she held out a pebble, polished smooth, the color of sand.

“A drop of blood, huh?” asked Buffy.  Looked at the stone for a second.  Got up, went into the kitchen, started rummaging in the knife drawer.

“A drop only,” said Moduz.  “Then we throw the stones together, you will… the closest word is _decorate_ – you will decorate them, and then I will read what the stones say.”

“Decorate them?”  Buffy came back out and picked up the question stone, knife in hand.

“Let us begin,” said the little demon, “and you will see.”  She reached into her bag and pulled out a handful of pebbles, cupped in one hand.  “Do you have a question to ask?”

“I dunno,” said Buffy.  “Ow.”  Squeezed her finger, let a drop fall onto the question stone.  “I mean, I want to know who these messages are talking about, but I’ve done this kind of thing before… and in the past, anytime I’ve ever asked a straightforward, simple question, the answers were anything but.”

Moduz crinkled her eyes again.  “That will not happen here,” she promised.

Following her direction, Buffy laid her stone down in the middle of a velvet cloth the demon spread across the coffee table.  Between them, they tossed the pebbles randomly across the cloth; then Moduz handed Buffy another pouch and had her pull out a fistful of whatever was inside.

In her hand she found an odd little collection of trinkets and scraps – pieces of string, a clump of grass, a bit of charred wood, what looked like a couple of bracelet charms, tiny crystals. Buffy placed them one by one around the cloth, next to different stones or not, wherever the whim struck her.  Decorating.  When she was done, she sat back and curled her legs up under her again.

The demon lit a candle and closed her eyes.  Suddenly she shivered, the long scales on her head rustling like dried leaves in an autumn wind.  She opened her eyes partway and stared at the table, breath hissing out in a soft sigh.

“Ahh,” she murmured.  “The one you love and thought was lost… the dark warrior who earned his own light… his hair bright like moonlight on water, his armor black as the starless sky… you were correct, Slayer.  Your messages are about him.” Her eyes opened and she touched the railroad spike Buffy had left on the table.  “This was his weapon and this is his name,” she said.

“Spike?” whispered Buffy.

“He lives,” said the demon.  “He lives, but there is danger for him, danger and sorrow and pain.  You need him… and he needs you, to go to him.” 

Buffy’s hands began to shake.


	9. Oracle, Vision

“Dru?” asked Spike.  “Is that you, love?”

“And who else would be here, searching and seeking for my William in the dark and the fog?” she answered.

The mists parted to reveal her, standing in the gown she’d worn when they first met.  She looked beautiful as always, but there was something else about her… something deeper that he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“Hullo, Dru.  What brings you here?” Spike asked.  Why not, after all.  It was only a dream.

“Looking for you, of course,” she said.  “And now I’ve found you.  Hello, William.”

“Aren’t you meant to be dead?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“’Course I am,” said Drusilla.  “Dead and dusted, some time ago now – and dead and turned before that.  Over two hundred years it’s been, since…”

“I know that, love,” he said.  “But I still don’t understand what you’d be doing in my dream.  No offense,” he added.

“None taken, my sweet,” she replied.  A smile on her face he’d never quite seen before.  What was it about her that was different?  “But what makes you think this is a dream?”

“Hmm, well,” the corner of his mouth quirked up, “if I were awake things would be a mite less pleasant, from what I remember.”

“Yes, the old demon,” said Drusilla.  “Poor thing.  He’s quite mad, you know. Lost his mind the day he lost his flock in that terrible fire.  Burned all up, poor little lambs.”

“I s’pose you’d be able to tell, wouldn’t you, love?” he asked.  Takes one nutter to recognize another, yeah?  Except… “Except you’re not,” breathed Spike.  “That’s it, isn’t it? There’s something different about you.  You’re… you’re sane, aren’t you?  You’re really all here?”  He tipped his head, looking at her in wonder.

“I am,” she said, “and I’m not.  Maybe I’m the Drusilla your heart always saw.  Or p’raps I’m the soul Angelus tried to destroy before he killed me, all those decades ago.”  She paused, smiled thoughtfully.  “Do you know, I’m not sure which it is… but it hardly matters now, does it?”

“S’pose not,” said Spike.  “Maybe it would, if I knew why you were here.”

“No,” she said.  “I’ve only come to keep you company.  Give you hope.  It doesn’t matter for that – does it?  It only matters that all of me be with you?”

“Might be right, love,” he said.  “But if you’re dead, how is it you’re meant to give me hope, then?”

“In the same way I gave you messages, my dear,” said Drusilla.  “Speak to you in the way you can hear, if I can.  If you’ll listen.”   She reached out, nearly touched his face, didn’t quite connect.  “I wasn’t sure if you would, at first.  Listen, I mean.”

“No? And why’s that?” he asked.  Humoring her a little.

“Your heart,” she said.  “It’s been wounded and worn, my William.  Almost worn out, you were.  Weary, body and soul, before ever you stumbled across the trouble you’re in now; I wasn’t sure you’d be able to hear what I wanted to tell you.”

“’She needs you, go to her’ – that was you, then?” he asked.

“Is that how my little birds sang to you?” she smiled, amused.  “I didn’t think it would be wise to be too specific, trying to reach you across the divide.  So long as their song led you to love.”

“Very sweet of you,” said Spike.

“Don’t patronize,” she laughed.  “You think this is all just a dream and you can ignore me when you wake up.  Don’t you?”  she said, and Spike shrugged.  “But you mustn’t, William.  She does need you, you see.  Her heart is as sore as yours, and she misses you terribly.”

Spike – William – blinked back tears; stepped back from her, pained.  “Buffy?  Misses me?”  He couldn’t help but scoff.  She couldn’t miss him; she didn’t love him, after all.  Her heart was only ever given to Angel, he was sure of it; and even if he was wrong, at the very least Spike knew it was never about him, with her.  They’d had trysts, nothing more.

It was cruel of Drusilla to suggest otherwise.

“Do you doubt so deeply?” she asked.  “Doubt yourself so? My poor William.  Do you really think your heart is such a poor second to Angel’s?”

“I know what I saw,” said William bitterly.  “You may think I need to go to her, and I’ll even do it if I can, but she won’t want me there no matter what you believe.”  Endure, survive this ordeal, go to Buffy, make sure she was all right – that was Spike’s plan all along.  Having Buffy love him back didn’t enter into it.

“You’re wrong, dear heart,” said Drusilla.  “I see her heart as clearly as ever I saw yours.  Little flickering flames, weeping tears enough to put them out, fssh!”  She spread her fingers suddenly, dancing them through the air. “She needs you.  She mourned you, you know.”

“No.”

“My William…”

“Stop calling me that.”  Spike turned his back, faced the formless gray rather than let Dru see the hurt on his face.

“Spike, then,” she said.  “Do you remember your friends, the witches, from Sunnydale?”  There she was in front of him again, without either of them having moved.  He looked away from her stubbornly. “If I had lived, and never met Angelus – if I had kept my sanity – I would have been something like them.  An oracle, William.  Angelus created a seer in me, and then squandered me rather than use me as he could have. They call us psychic, nowadays.”  She stepped in, close enough to kiss, but never quite touched him.  “I can see her heart, William.  Spike.  And I can see yours.  You need each other.”

“I wish I could believe that as strongly as you do,” he said quietly.  Not quite able to meet her gaze.

“They’re not _my_ messages,” she said quietly, forcefully.  “I can hear your hearts, calling out, weeping even though you don’t know it yourselves.  Little flickering flames…  All I’ve done is send your calls, yours and hers, to one another.”  She reached out for his hands, clenched into fists at his sides, never quite touching.

“What you heard, my William, was the Slayer’s need for you.  To have you, by her side.  She does need you, as you need her.”

Slowly, painfully, Spike forced himself to look into Drusilla’s eyes.  Instead of a vampire touched by madness, he saw the woman Drusilla could have become; instead of the power of her thrall, he saw only compassion… and honesty.  Tears welled up, and he swallowed once, twice.

“Now your journey can take you no further,” she said.  “Now it’s her turn to hear your call.  And she does, William.  Spike.  She hears your need, and she is coming.”

“Going to have a bit of a time finding me, then,” he said.  Hated the way his voice wavered.  Bloody ponce.

“No,” smiled Drusilla.  “She _will_ find you.  Love always does.  All you need do is endure, while she searches.”

Unable to fight the tears anymore, he shut his eyes tight and bent his head, meaning to touch his forehead to hers, but nothing touched him.  He looked up, turned around; there was no one there.  Faintly, he heard her voice in the fog.

“It won’t be long now,” Drusilla said softly.  “You must bear your burden, my Spike, but only a little longer.  She will come for you…”

Memories of the First Evil tugged at his heart.  “I hope you’re right, Dru,” he whispered.

 

 

“Oh, God,” said Buffy.  Her throat was closing up and her eyes burned.  Buffy-scraps, fraying and shredding, any second now.  “He’s really alive?  I mean – you’re sure?”

Moduz touched the cloth along one edge.  “My flashes are certain, yes.  Also the stones.  They say that there was a battle, recently.  He was wounded, but recovered.”

Buffy hid her face in her hands for a long moment, before she pushed her hair out of her eyes and looked up.  Caught Xander watching them from across the room.  “What else do you see?” she asked.  “Tell me everything. Please.”

“Yes, of course,” said Moduz.  “The stones and your… decorating… they form patterns and shapes here on the velvet.  We call it the map among my people.”  She gestured toward a cluster of pebbles.  “Each stone has meaning on its own, and each decoration you placed also.  When the pieces are set beside one another, the shapes – the patterns – they create together have meaning also, and the… relationships? The way they respond to each other?  And then, where they rest on the map also carries meaning.  There are many layers to this kind of reading, and much insight to be gained.”  She took a sip of coffee, flicked her tongue across her lips.  “It can take a long time to read everything on the map, and I can see already that this will be a powerful reading.  If you truly wish me to tell you everything, you will need to be patient.  Can you do this?”

Xander slid an armchair over to the other side of the coffee table. “Buffy? Are you okay for this?”  He looked her over, concern on his face.  “It’s just – you’ve had a really rough couple of days, and it’s late already.  If you wanted, I could get the reading from Moduz and you could go, get some rest.”

Both the women shook their heads.  “No,” said Buffy.  “They’re my messages, Xan.  They’ve been coming to me, and it looks like there’s something I’ll need to do about them – I mean, me-myself,” she said.  “Thanks, but I think I need to see this through.”

“She is right,” said Moduz.  “We will talk together as I read the stones and the map, and the things you ask of me will help to direct my reading.”  She glanced up shyly.  “I am sorry, boss-sir, but you can not do this for her.”

“I figured you’d say that,” said Xander.  “Both of you.  I had to ask, though.” He reached across and squeezed Buffy’s shoulder.  “Anything you need – you know that, right?”

Buffy nodded, swallowed hard.  “Thanks, Xan,” she said after a moment.  She nodded at Moduz, took a deep breath.  Let it out heavily.  “Okay, go ahead.”

So the little demon did; she pointed to clusters of stones, touched bits of grass and string, and gave them concepts like the Dark Warrior, the Minister, and the Lovers; Battle, Abandon and Betrayal; the Great Journey and Hardship, Sorrow, and the Wounded Heart.  She described two lonely souls who needed one another in order to heal from great grief; two wanderers in search of a home, who would only be able to find it together.  According to the stones, Buffy and Spike were two halves of something Moduz called “the Auspicious Body,” which could refer to a home, a business venture, a marriage, or any other unit that needed more than one person to be complete.

“In this case,” she explained, “I only see two halves to the Auspicious Body – sometimes there can be as many as a dozen people or elements involved in creating a Body, but here – even though others will support you – to make this Body there are only you and your companion, this Spike.”  She touched Buffy’s question stone and a cluster of objects a few inches away.  “You each are being compelled to seek out the other, for without the two halves the Auspicious Body cannot form.”

“Compelled,” said Buffy.  “You mean like my messages?”

Moduz nodded.  “Yours, and his,” she said.  “Here – the Messenger is placed very clearly, very precisely.  She speaks to you both in turn, beckoning to whichever partner is most able to answer her call.”

“So… if I didn’t do anything,” said Buffy, “if I ignored the messages and just stayed here… you’re saying that Spike would start getting messages instead?”

“Already he probably has received his own messages,” said the demon.  “But to put aside your own… I think that would be a bad idea, for many reasons.  Among my people, it is very bad luck to ignore the voice of destiny when it speaks to us.  For you not to answer this call could anger forces that shape your fate.”

“No surprise there,” muttered Xander, and despite everything, Buffy fought a snicker.

“But also,” said Moduz, “Spike may have traveled as far toward you as he is able.  Whether or not he receives more messages now is not important.  The messages are coming to _you_ now, and look – your way is clear, while your partner’s Journey is blocked by Hardship, by… by…” Her eyelids fluttered, and she swayed in her seat.

“Are you okay?”  asked Buffy, at the same time Xander asked, “Moduz, what’s wrong?”

The demon sat up suddenly, her hands curled into claws and body rigid, her back arched so that her head pointed at the ceiling.  She began to gasp for breath and to shiver as she spoke.

“Ah!  He is bound,” she cried, “captured and bound – he is bound with silk and with bone, w-with steel and words… words of power hold him.  He cannot come to you – he needs – he is wounded…” She clawed at the air, panting.  “His foe – a thief – he is wounded – growing, grows weaker – the th-th-thief s-steals his strength – robs him of life – he cannot come.  H-he needs you – he is bound – ah!  You, you must go – must go to him.  Must save him – he dies, he d-dies – without you, he – afraid, in, in, in p-pain – he cannot escape – it is beyond him – the binding is too strong – too strong – he n-needs – ah!”

Moduz shuddered violently and collapsed backward; Xander, always ready for the crazy, caught her just before she hit the floor, and laid her down gently.  Stared at Buffy over her head, who stared back at him in shock.

After a moment, she sat up, blinking, her tongue flicking out nervously like a snake’s.  “I am sorry,” she said quietly.  Shaking hand, touching her forehead as she caught her breath. “I did not mean to frighten.  It was… I have flashes, sometimes.  I told you this, yes?”  When they nodded, she went on, “This was much stronger than I can usually see.  Less of a flash.  More of a true vision.”

“Can you tell us what it meant?” asked Xander.  Pulled her up to sit on the couch again.

“There is magic,” said Moduz.  “Your friend, your partner – Spike – he is held by a spell of some kind, something that weakens him, more each day.  If he is not found, the spell may kill him – I could not see for certain.  I saw only that he suffers, and that the spell holds him in a way that is impossible for him to fight.  He cannot escape on his own.  He can only endure, and hope to be found in time.”

Blinking rapidly, she picked up her mug and took a tentative sip.  Looked Buffy in the eye.  “He needs you,” she said.  “You _must_ go to him.”

Buffy turned her face away, eyes closed and jaw tight.  Fought a sob – of pain or relief, she wasn’t sure.

“Tell me where,” she said.


	10. Endurance, Impatience

Hands on his body woke Spike from his dream, a fist in his hair and hard fingers digging into one armpit, heaving and pulling him out of the water again and bringing him back to the world that had all the pain in it.  Usually a fellow can get used to a sensation, smells stop bothering a bloke, fades to the background and all that; but the burning from the spell glyphs cut into his skin would not fade.  The excruciating ache of broken bones in his knee and ribs and head would not go away, and the screaming in his lungs, desperate to expel water and take in air, refused to grow any less.

If Spike ever wanted to explain to someone what hell felt like, he’d be sure to use this experience in his description.

Maybe he was in hell already.  Maybe he’d died without being aware of it and just been dropped at Lucifer’s feet, the devil’s latest trophy all gift-wrapped pretty as you please, trussed like a Christmas goose for his tormentors to enjoy.  Bit of a vacation for them, he got to suffer and they didn’t have to work for it, yeah?  And no more than he deserved, after all.

And Drusilla thought Buffy would come for him.  Spike couldn’t decide whether to laugh or moan.

The hands were on his stomach now, forcing water out of his belly and chest, letting the smallest bit of air in to relieve that agony, at least.  Fingers in his mouth; Spike remembered what happened last time, and tried to brace for the hunger that he knew would come, but…

Blood. Blood NOW.  Feed. Hunger. _Feed_. Blood.  _Need_ it.  Demand, crave, need, NEED, FEED, _NOW. BLOOD_ …

Mindless, he bit down on what was pushed into his mouth.  Faintly he could taste it, plastic, blood inside, a drop had leaked and he licked, bit down, bit harder, dug his teeth in, forced his jaw to clamp down…

Nothing happened.

_Nothing happened._

Where was it, it wouldn’t come, he needed, god, give it to him, give him the blood, mother, mama, nurse mama, suck mama, suck drink eat, need, give, please, please…

Fingers in his mouth.  Blood?  He suckled them, but there was nothing for him there.

Cord wound around his tongue.  The hunger pushed away, somewhere unimportant, and Spike’s mind gradually came back.  Brought with it the realization that he was so severely starved, so desperately weak from hunger, that he couldn’t even bite through the plastic of the bag to get at the blood inside.  There was no way he would be able to feed without help, now.  The magic was sucking Spike dry, hollowing him out just as he’d thought it would. 

Vampires couldn’t starve to death.  Sure, they shriveled to walking skeletons, but lack of blood didn’t kill them.  They simply got thinner and thinner, weaker and weaker, and eventually, if things were bad enough for long enough, they became… dormant.  Inert.  If this spell didn’t kill him, if no one came along to help him eat, Spike would remain like that forever.

Inert.  Useless.  Alone.

Hands under his arms, dragging; hands at his shoulders, pushing.  Falling, splash into the cold, feeling it creep into his lungs again as the air bubbled out…

Surely, surely this was hell.

 _Drusilla said Buffy was coming.  All I had to do was endure._  With nothing else to hang onto, Spike reached for that thought and clutched it to him prayerfully.  _Drusilla said Buffy was coming.  Just endure._   But he was so tired now, so weak…  _Drusilla said… Buffy… Buffy was coming… just endure…_

Just endure.

 

 

Back when Buffy first started college, she’d always been just the tiniest bit envious whenever she heard some giggling co-ed holler the words “road trip” down the hallway in her dorm.  There was just something about the idea of being able to drop her responsibilities and take off, headed for an unknown destination for an unspecified length of time, with nothing but a set of keys and her own girly whims to direct her.  Being the Slayer, of course, meant never allowing herself that kind of freedom, but a part of her had always kind of wished she could have.  Just grab some friends who could drive and a sack full of munchies, and disappear for a weekend, to heck with Slayer duties for a couple days, you know?

It just… sounded nice, sometimes.

Now, however, Buffy was pretty sure that road trips were less of the good and more of the Things Not All They’re Cracked Up To Be.  In fact, if she were pressed she might decide that road trips actually kind of sucked.

Spike was alive.  Undead – whatever.  Spike wasn’t dust.  He was around somewhere and he needed her help, only she had no idea at all where he might be.  Anywhere in the world was reasonable, given – well, given everything she knew about him, Angel, their job, and the mess that Los Angeles had turned into.  They could have decided to hide in Timbuktu for all she knew.  Perfect recipe for a road trip, right?  He was heaven-knew-where and it would take heaven-knew-how-long to reach him.

Way less cool than it sounded like.

Or, you know, maybe that was just because she wasn’t actually able to grab the keys and _go_ the way she wanted to.

“We can take the pickup truck, right?”

“No good,” said Xander, “no place to put him that’s out of the sun.  I can get a cargo van from the company – no windows.”

“That’ll do,” said Buffy.  “Better than wrapping him in a tarp, anyway…  Okay, supplies.  We’ll probably need first aid stuff, food for us, blood for him… is there a butcher shop open this time of night?”

“Probably not, but I can ask the second-shift guys,” said Xander. 

“You have demons that drink pigs’ blood?” asked Buffy.

“Even better,” he replied.  “We actually have a vampire on staff, works in receiving.  Doesn’t hunt.  He was a Buddhist back in the Sixties, before he was turned, and the whole non-violence thing stuck with him.”

“You’re kidding.”  Buffy blinked at him.

“Nope,” he said. “We do random screenings on him the same as we do drug tests for everyone else.  He’s been human-DNA free the whole time.”  When Buffy gaped at him, Xander just shrugged.  “Hey, you have Spike, I have hippie vampire shipping clerks.  Shades of gray, Buffster.  You taught me that; it just took awhile before it finally sank in.”

“If you say so,” she said.  Half-smile feeling strange on her face.  “Weapons?”

The planning went on into the night, but little by little things began to come together.  Xander kept enough sharp-and-pointies on hand that she didn’t need to worry about a trip in to Cleveland, at least.  Both Xander’s house and the construction company had excellent first aid supplies, no surprise there.  The shipping vamp actually came by the house around three in the morning with some of his own stash of blood in a cooler.

“Hey, man, happy to help out my fellow vampire brother, stayin’ on the straight and narrow, man, you know what I mean?”  Buffy secretly thought that while he might be clean of human blood, Xander should consider checking him for other substances too.  There was no way that smell on his… Buddhist-guy robes... was pure incense, but whatever.

Last but definitely not least, they had to track down a local witch, who could make a tracking talisman for them to hunt Spike with.

Xander had suggested getting hold of Willow and having her do a locator spell, but Buffy had vetoed.  Partly, she was pretty sure the spell needed something of Spike’s in order to find him; partly, she worried that Willow had been in on Giles’ little conspiracy of silence.  If she never asked, she didn’t have to find out – didn’t have to feel like her best friend had betrayed her right along with her Watcher.

At least Xander had told her straight up that he’d been in the middle of nowhere for most of the past year, out of communication range for everything except “find the baby Slayer” messages.  He truly hadn’t known Spike was still around… and if he had known, he’d changed enough in Africa that he wasn’t completely sure he would have kept his mouth shut.  A year ago, he admitted, yeah, probably; not now, though.

Anyway.  So not important right now.

It was starting to look like Xander was turning into a one-man Watcher’s Council, with all his contacts in the supernatural community in and around Toledo; seriously, the number of people he knew who weren’t really “people” was nothing short of amazing.  The local witch was yet another acquaintance of his – apparently they’d gotten to know one another over beer and stories of Africa.  Xander’s company had used her as an independent contractor more than once, to “do feng shui” and “harmonious placement” on a construction site before they got started.  She wasn’t anywhere close to Willow’s league as far as power was concerned, but she knew a spell that could turn an ordinary object into a kind of compass needle, only instead of pointing north, the thing would have a magnetic pull toward whoever or whatever it was created to track down.

That was good enough for Buffy.

One of the few things she’d managed to keep from Sunnydale, oddly enough, was the skull ring that Spike had given her several years back, when Willow’s spell had compelled him to propose marriage to her.  Bended knee and everything, she remembered.  The day they’d closed the Hellmouth, she’d kept it in her pocket.  At the time, it seemed only fair – since he was wearing an amulet from her, she should be carrying something of his too.

She wasn’t sure if the thing counted as a good luck charm or not, given how things had turned out that day, but she was still glad to have it.

It was four o’clock by the time the spell was finished.  The skull ring hung on a chain threaded through with silk ribbon, another drop of her blood drying inside.  Whenever she held up the chain and concentrated, the ring would swing toward Spike and the chain would pull taut.  Right now, the pull wasn’t very strong, but according to the witch the odds were good that he was somewhere between fifty and two hundred miles away.  That was actually good news – any farther away and the talisman might not twitch enough to be noticeable. 

So, maybe a four or five-hour trip, assuming the roads took them straight to him.  Definitely beat “Timbuktu” as a starting option.

Finally the house was quiet again, all their visitors gone home, all the prep work done.

“Xander, I need you to talk some sense at me,” Buffy said.  Pacing in the living room, hands clutching her elbows.  Shoulders up around her ears somewhere.  Her stomach was hurting, again.

“Um,” said Xander.  “Eat your vegetables? Look both ways before you –“

“I want to take off now, Xan,” said Buffy.  “We have everything.  If we’re lucky we can find him before sunrise, make the trip back by day, get him into your garage and he’s safe.”  _Safe, god, please let him be safe_ , she thought, looking at the floor as she paced.  Moved one hand to her stomach and rubbed.

“Ah,” said Xander.  “Where the other option is, you actually get some sleep and a decent meal into you for a change – don’t think I can’t tell how much you haven’t been eating – and we leave later in the day or at sunset, with your batteries all charged up and ready to take on the bad guys.”  He leaned against the doorway and looked at her, arms folded.  “Is that the kind of sense you’re asking me for?”

“Kinda,” she said.  “I mean, I might sleep in the van on the way there.  I could eat while you drove.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, “and I’d just wake you up every fifteen minutes or so to test out the tracking amulet, is that it?”

“Um, yes?” she asked in a small voice.

“Um, no,” he said.  Voice nowhere near as small. Wow.  “Have I ever shown you my resolve face?  ‘Cause I actually do have one, I just don’t use it much.”  He pushed off from the doorway, walked over to block her pacing.  Took her by the shoulders, gently.

“You want to go to him three days ago – I get it,” he said.  “Believe me, I get it.  But you won’t be any good to him if you’re still a wreck from the past week’s emotional rollercoaster.  Again, don’t think I haven’t noticed.” He shook her, still gentle, eyes concerned.  “You might fool everyone else, but I know you better than that.  You’re barely hanging on, Buff.”

“I know,” she said.  Hating the way her voice started to wobble along with her lip.  “I just – I really – oh, God, Xander,” and just like that, she was crying and he was holding her.  And then she was sobbing, and he was holding her up.

Guided her to her room, step by caring step.  “I know, Buff,” he murmured into her hair.  “I know.  We’ll find him.  We’ll find him, and he’ll be okay, and if he isn’t okay you can help him get better and then deck him for scaring you like that.  You’re okay, Buff.  It’s okay…”

He sat with her while she cried, rubbing circles into her back until she fell asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have been waiting so patiently, my thanks. Real Life (tm) kept me from posting for a while, but here are four more chapters to tide you over until the next chance I get. This story IS complete, and about 35 chapters long. I just need to get them all up here on AO3.


	11. Hunting, Waiting

Probably most road trips were louder than this one, what with the giggling and the car full of co-eds and all; Buffy and Xander were doing sort of the quiet version instead.  A little conversation, a lot of staring out the window at the passing countryside.  But it turned out not to be so bad, she thought, as long as you were into navel-gazing and cataloging your list of worries into a convenient, easy-to-freak-out-about format.

Buffy wasn’t.

And the day had started out so well, too… Slept till noon, woke up with that special kind of contentment that you only get after a really good night’s sleep.  Sun shining, birds singing, no obvious weird dreams she could recall.  It looked like Xander was right about getting her batteries recharged… to face the bad guys… damn.

She sighed.  Just like that her good-sleep afterglow vanished and she was wound tight as a harp string again.   Rolling out of bed, she’d had to will the muscles in her back to loosen back up.  There hadn’t been anything she could do, though, about the sudden ache in her stomach as reality kicked back in.

Buffy looked out the window and watched the fields roll by, somewhere in the northwest corner of Ohio.  And what did reality look like, kids?  Well, to recap:

Spike was alive.  Giles had tried to keep them apart.  Had succeeded, the bastard, letting her believe that the undead was actually dead-dead for an entire year until the ruse was up and another apocalypse struck Los Angeles.  Buffy had walked away from Giles – or maybe she’d run away – and then found herself pulled toward Spike, whom she’d mourned for the past year, discovered was alive that whole time, grieved as dead _again_ starting only two weeks ago, and then found out, nope, still kicking, surprise, Buffy!  Only now something was kicking him, and he needed Buffy to come save him, wherever he was.

All wrapped up in the middle of the Giles thing was her fear that some or all of her friends might have been in on the secret he’d managed to keep from her, which was all kinds of fun to contemplate and the main cause of the ongoing painful knot in her stomach.  In the middle of the whole Spike thing was her attempt to create a new life away from the whole Giles thing, so you could include jet-lag, moving into a new home clear across the ocean, settling into a new job in a city she’d never even visited before, and trying to remember how much groceries were supposed to cost here in the States on top of the rest.

In other words, she had grief and sadness, betrayal, anger, hurt and broken trust, more grief, exhaustion, new-kid-nerves, bombshells, more hurt, hope, fear, love, worry, a dash of paranoia, and a partridge in a pear tree.  Vampire in a pear tree.  Something like that.

And there were people who paid good money to go on roller coasters with nowhere near as many loops as that.

“Buffy?”

“Whu – yeah?” She pulled her gaze away from the cornfields.  So much green, so different from the edge-of-the-desert landscape where she’d grown up.

“It’s been twenty minutes,” reminded Xander.

“Oh. Right.”  She pulled the chain out from her jacket pocket and concentrated.  _Spike, where are you?_ The ring swung away from her about three inches and hovered there.  “Still kinda north, mostly west,” she said. “The pull feels a little stronger, though.”

“’Kay.” Xander nodded.  “That’s good.  We’ll find him, Buff.”

“I know,” she said.  _But then what_ , she didn’t say aloud.

Once she got to Spike, Buffy was petrified of what she might find.  Could a vampire be wrecked beyond repair?  Could he recover from what the magic was doing to him?  Or would she be too late to save him from whatever trouble had found him?  Buffy rolled the knots out of her neck again, the way she’d been doing all afternoon.  She just didn’t know.

Worse, scarier even, she didn’t know if Spike would even want her to come riding to the rescue.  He’d pretty much hidden from her for the past year, after all.  Need her?  Yes, according to all the oracular oracle-ness and mystical messages.  Be at all happy to see her once he was out of danger?  Not a clue.  And she wasn’t sure if she could blame him for trying to get away from the angst-fest that was A Relationship With Buffy Summers.

But she had never let what-ifs and worry freeze her before, and she wasn’t going to start today.

The “Welcome to Indiana” sign was pretty.  Cheerful yellow star in the middle.  The pavement changed under their tires.  The fields stayed exactly the same.

Dealing with the Spike thing, coming face-to-face with him again after all this time, wasn’t the hardest part.  That involved her doing something, preferably something that involved a little ass-kicking, a spot of violence as Spike would have put it.  Buffy could do that.  The emotional part of facing him – she’d jump off that bridge when she came to it.  But the physical? Not a problem.

No, it was the Giles thing, the rest of the emotional rollercoaster, that was really making her stomach hurt.  It wasn’t just Giles – even though just thinking his name made her grit her teeth and rub harder at the pain in her belly – nor was it only Willow and not wanting to tap her for the magics.  It was all of them, Dawn, Andrew, Faith, even the other Slayers she’d become friends with in the past year. 

Had Giles included them in his deception?  Were they victims too, or were they accomplices?  Would they understand why she wasn’t speaking to anyone, or did they already know?  What were they saying behind her back?   ‘Cause Buffy hadn’t turned her cell on, hadn’t set up her laptop, nor checked email even once since she’d gotten back to the States.  She was ready to not talk to any of them for the next few months at least… but the way she was counting on them to react to that was enough to make her cringe and reach for the Tums.

Trust – that was what it came down to.  Right now, reeling from fresh betrayal and old grief made new, staggering under worry and hope and love she was still afraid to admit, Buffy – _the_ Buffy, Slayer Extraordinaire – just didn’t have the strength to hold herself up under the pressure of their questions, their criticism, their opinions, their stupid well-meaning for-your-own-good _mistrust_ of her motives.  Couldn’t quite extend the trust, on her side, that they wouldn’t try to bring that kind of pressure to bear on her.

If it weren’t for Xander being with the understanding and the no-questions-asked helpfulness, she’d be avoiding him too and trying to find Spike on her own, to heck with the risk.

Not involving the rest of them in Spike’s rescue, or telling them he was alive after all?  Maybe that was just the first aspect of Buffy’s new attempt to live her life on her own instead of by committee.  Maybe she was trying to make her choices and deal with the consequences without their input, without asking their opinions, and hopefully without having to deal with their freakin’ judgment afterward.  That’d be nice.

Or, you know, maybe she was just exercising a little petty revenge for their keeping _her_ in the dark all those times in the past.  Take your pick.

“Twenty minutes, Buffy,” said Xander.

“Ugh. Thank you,” she replied.

“Howzat?”

“Too much thinking,” she said.  Pulled out the chain. Concentrated – “Ooh!  Ooh, Xander, look, it’s sideways!”  The ring was pointing toward the passenger-side window now instead of out the windshield, hovering at a noticeable angle.  “We have to go that way, Xander, quick!”

“I’ll take the next exit we come to,” he said, “I think there’s one a few miles up.  Freedmont… look that up in the atlas, would you?”

Buffy pulled out the map and flipped through the pages.  “I can’t… oh, wait – small town.  Really small.  Really really, village size, easy-to-find-Spike sized town.”  Butterflies all of a sudden, there in her stomach next to the ache.  Weird combination.

 “Anything else it might be?” asked Xander.

“Not on this map,” said Buffy.  “Farmhouses, somewhere in the woods, maybe?”  She pulled out the chain again and wound one end through her fingers.  Focused.  Checked the map.  “If he’s not in Freedmont he’s just outside it,” she said.  “And the pull definitely is stronger now.”

“Sounds good,” he said.

Buffy thought of what the little demon girl had said, took a moment to try and guess what Spike might be going through.  “For us,” was all she said.

* * *

 

Figg wasn’t humming today.

He moved among the rows in the flower greenhouse, garden hose in hand, methodically watering each bed and tray, each of the container gardens and hanging baskets, but for the first time in quite a long spell, his heart wasn’t really in his work.  It was just a touch too hot for his taste, too muggy, and with the cloud cover he knew the humidity wouldn’t be letting up any time soon.  And it looked like rain, probably another thunderstorm like they’d gotten last week.  Or whenever it was.  Time was hard to keep track of.

It wasn’t a good day for family to travel.  He thought he might almost doubt that they would come today… no.  No.  Of course they’d come.  The weather would just delay them a bit, that’s all.  They’d come.  Crazy talk, to say otherwise – to even think that they wouldn’t was just… nonsense.  But Figg’s joints ached with the change in the weather, and he felt old, and the young man’s harsh words at the start of his visit kept coming back to him, and… well, they were untrue, of course.  But they still bothered Figg.

He wasn’t the only one bothered, either.  He could feel the young man inside him, and something was eating at him too.  Figg had no idea what, the young man wouldn’t say a thing to him about it, and boy I tell you what, that wasn’t nice of him after staying as a visitor under Figg’s roof for so long.  Didn’t even take the bit of blood Figg had offered him again as a thank-you present, just like he promised he would yesterday.  Him being so helpful and all, and then when Figg tried to thank him he just brushed it off.  Maybe he was just being modest, but still.  Almost rude, it was.

Figg didn’t like it.

He wasn’t angry, though.  It was a waste of time to get angry and Figg didn’t hold with wasting time.  Might not be ready for his family when they came, couldn’t have that, no sir.  No, he was just… disappointed.  Company had come, the nice young man had stayed with him longer than almost anyone in… in… well, in a while anyway… time was hard to keep track of.  But now he had a hunch company was getting ready to leave, just like that, probably wouldn’t even say goodbye.  They didn’t, most times.  Figg just woke up one morning and they were gone, nobody to keep him company in the potting shed while he worked, no one to help out around the place.  Just up and gone.  And then he had to wait alone again, until some other nice folk came along and agreed to help him.

He could almost hear the young man saying he didn’t want to help, wanted Figg to let him leave, talk it out over a beer or some balderdash.  Saying his family was… saying…

Figg shoved his lower lip out, scrubbed his knuckles under his chin, and kept watering the flowers.  Hmph.  Letting some young upstart get to him like that, like he was a young ram again letting just anybody rile him up.  Foolishness.

It was a relief, you can just imagine, when he saw the construction company van pull into his drive.  Customers always made him feel better.  Took his mind off things for a bit while he waited for his family to come.  Be here any day now, he knew it… but they were taking their sweet time getting back, he had to admit – no.  Nonsense.  He could feel the young man’s bitter loneliness and it was getting to him, that was all.  He should know better than to let someone else’s trouble upset him so.

And never mind that now, anyway.  He had customers to see to, and construction!  Folks in construction usually ordered a lot for landscaping and such.  That was always nice.

He hung up the garden hose, checked his glamour was in place, and started working his way through the rows to greet his guests.  He was humming again by the time they got out of the van and made it inside.

Little muggy, but all in all, still a nice day.

* * *

 

Drusilla wanted him to remember something.  Something that would help him get through it, something… there was…  Drusilla said someone was coming.  Drusilla was insane, just like that old… Figg, he thought his family was coming and Dru said… there was someone…

The spell was carving him out, hollow like those lanterns the little kiddies carved at Hallowe’en and the big kiddies would smash on a lark… cliché of a holiday, was what it was… hollow.  He was getting hollow, too weak to keep himself to himself, and the hunger was starting to distract him even here, under the layers and layers… and layers…  all wrapped up like a mummy, he was…

Mummy… dummy… Duffy, that singer, yeah?  Duffy.  Buffy.

Buffy.  He needed to hang on… she needed him, he had to… had to go to her… had to…

Dru said she was coming to him.

Dru was dead.

 


	12. Fading, Ending

“You’re sure this is the place?” Xander shaded his eyes from the sun as he climbed down out of the van.  “It’s just – I mean, a greenhouse?”

“I suppose if you wanted to keep a vampire somewhere he couldn’t get out of…” Buffy shrugged.

“Sure – by day,” he replied.

“Hey, I’m just going by what the amulet is telling me,” she said.  “We drove past the place twice, there’s nothing behind it… this is all we’ve got.”  She slammed her door and started crunching across the tiny gravel parking lot. 

“And I’m sure this guy knows all about why we’re here and will be able to help us no problem,” said Xander.  Nodded toward the old guy in overalls who had just come out of the nearest greenhouse, wiping his hands on an old red rag.

“Sure,” said Buffy, “why not?”

The guy looked kind of like Santa Claus, if you took him out of the North Pole and put him on a farm, got rid of the elves, and maybe let him set up a whiskey still somewhere in the woods behind the house.  He had dirt under his fingernails and was more barrel-chested than jelly-bellied, his hair was thinning and stuck up every which way, and his beard was more of a tuft under his chin than the full Ho-Ho-Ho Special, but it was still pure white and his face crinkled up as he beamed at them.  Ancient.  Somebody’s favorite grandpa, you could just tell.

“Hello there, folks,” he said.  “Afternoon.  Welcome to Figg’s Farm-N-Floral.  Figg would be me.”  He put out his hand and Xander shook it.  Calluses from a lifetime of work.  “It’s just me today – my family’s out.  But they’ll be back soon.”

“Uh, hi,” said Buffy. 

“First greenhouse here is the pretty stuff,” said Figg, “all the floral things are in there.  Second greenhouse is the veggies, herbs and such.”  He shook himself, scritched at his head.   “Oh for heaven’s sake. Come in, come on in, what am I thinking keeping you out here.”

Figg opened the door and herded them into the greenhouse.  Colors everywhere, the air damp and clean, hanging baskets dripping overhead.  A misplaced butterfly exploring a giant pot full of different kinds of plants.  “The weather’s changing, you know, must be going right to my head.  Muggy like it is.  My age, you expect it to go to your knees, not make you all forgetful and twitter-pated.”

While he was rambling, Buffy leaned in to whisper to Xander, “Keep him talking while I look around, ‘kay?”

Xander nodded.  Went to open his mouth, but Figg beat him to it.

“So, what’ll it be?” he asked.  “What can I get you young people today?”

They froze for a second, then…  “Flowers,” said Buffy.  Right over the top of Xander saying, “Veggies.”  They looked at each other, and Xander mumbled something about tomatoes for the backyard.

“Kinda both,” said Buffy.  “I mean, I just moved in… um…”

“Oh, course, o’course you did, young lady,” said Figg, “and of course a lady likes to put a woman’s touch on her new home, isn’t that right?”  He looked between them, smiled knowingly.  “And congratulations.  You let me tell you something, you two make a lovely young couple, you really do.”

Buffy heroically managed not to say “ew” or deck the old geezer.  The old nod-and-smile was almost as hard, but she managed that too.

She was faintly grateful for the way Xander seemed to choke as he said thanks.

“Well, if you two want to just browse, take a look around, you go right ahead,” Figg was saying.  “Way to the veggie greenhouse is through the potting shed there, at the end of the big aisle.  Better yet, let me just take you through there myself,” he said.  “It’s dark and there’s an old cistern in the floor in one corner, big old hole in the ground.  Don’t want to fall in there,” he chuckled.  “It’s where I compost my clippings.  Big mess on your shoes.”

The potting shed was indeed dark compared to the bright glass-roofed greenhouse, and much cooler out of the sun.  Buffy felt the faintest shiver on her neck as they passed through to the second building, which gave her a first impression of smelling like a salad bar.  No bright flowers here, but the beans crawled up wires as high as the ceiling and the tomatoes – “I planted ‘em clear back in February. Get ‘em before anyone else, out to the farmer’s market” – were already ripening on their little shrubs.

The greenery almost completely blocked the view to the outside.  Almost completely hid the car parked near the ruins of an old barn, back behind the house.  The car was small, low-slung, dark, and vaguely intimidating.  _Predatory_ , Buffy’s mind supplied.  The thing seemed almost to be prowling around the yard even just sitting there.

If there was ever a car that existed exclusively to announce itself as “Spike”, this one was it.

Buffy nudged Xander with her elbow.  A little too hard, given his sudden wince.  “Sorry,” she muttered.  Pointed out through the bank of tall herbs.  Watched Xander do a double-take.

“Say, um, Mr. Figg,” he stammered, “that’s, uh, a really nice car.”  Buffy could have smacked her forehead.

“Oh, that,” said Figg.  “Belongs to a young man I have helping me.  Just a temporary fellow, you know.  Won’t stay much longer.  Fella owns a car like that, he’s got places to be and things to do.  You know how it is.”

“You, uh, think he’d mind if I were to take a look at it?” asked Xander.

“Well you can’t ask him,” said Figg quickly.  “He’s busy.  You can’t.  Can’t bother him.”  Brought his hands together and started scraping dirt out from under one thumbnail.

“Oh,” said Xander.  “I really just wanted to take a quick gander at it.  I’ll come right back.”  Buffy watched him steel himself and… she wasn’t sure… draw on his inner annoying child, maybe?  Because suddenly he was out the back door and headed across the grass, tossing “Why don’t you pick something out, honey?” over his shoulder as he went.

 _Honey_.  Buffy rolled her eyes.  Caught Figg watching her, a little fearful.  “Sorry,” she said.  “He gets like that.  Uh… you know boys and their toys.”  Bright smile.

“I just don’t know if my young man will like that,” Figg said querulously.  Old, old man, worried all of a sudden.  “I – I should go ask him.  I’ll be back.  Don’t worry.  In a jiffy.  I’ll be right...”  He took off back toward the potting shed, limping on old joints.  Buffy almost felt sorry for him.

Except then she pulled out the amulet and concentrated.  It nearly jumped out of her hand – and was pointed straight at Figg’s retreating back.

* * *

 

Hungry.

He was hungry, and hollow, and knew himself to be too weak to eat on his own.

Helpless.

Drusilla was standing in front of him, eyes serene.  She still claimed Buffy would come.  He almost thought he felt her, briefly.

Hallucinations.

The spell was killing him.  Carving him out, bleeding him dry, emptying him.  Soon there would be nothing left.

Hollow.

* * *

Buffy jumped when Xander tapped her on the shoulder – she hadn’t even heard him come back inside.

“The windows are tinted pretty dark,” he said, “but there’s a cooler and empty liquor bottles in the back, and his duster and boots are in the front passenger seat.”  He looked at her.  “Also, California license plates.”

“He’s here,” said Buffy.  She hardly recognized the sound of her own voice.  Hollow.  “I think… I think we walked past him.  In the potting shed.”  She met his eyes, trying not to shake.  “Where it’s dark.”  She held up the amulet and focused again, making sure to hold the chain tightly.  Once again, it shot straight out in front of her, the chain yanked taut and nearly cutting into her fingers.  Aimed back the way they’d just come.

And there was Xander’s resolve face.

They approached the potting shed as quietly as they could, slowing when they heard Figg’s voice inside. 

“Good day for travel,” he was saying. “Good day for family to come.  Your people.  I think they’re your people.  You’re going to leave me, aren’t you.  Now that your people are here.  Company always does that.  My family should come.  I don’t understand.  Why haven’t they come?  They should come, I told you.  Good day for traveling.  They should be here.  They should’ve gotten here before your people.  It isn’t right.  It’s not nice.  I don’t understand.”  By the end his voice was starting to rise, distraught.

They stepped into the potting shed and looked around.  There was no one else there – no assistant gardener near the workbenches, no Spike conveniently chained to a wall for them to spot.  Yet Buffy could still feel that faint almost-chill on the back of her neck.  “Who are you talking to, Mr. Figg?” she asked.

“You,” said Figg. “You’re here.  It’s a good day to travel.  Why are you here?  Doesn’t make sense.  Why aren’t they here?  Why are you?”

Buffy caught a flicker of odd light across his eyes.  She looked again and watched as they changed color, twinkling from dark brown to a silver-green the color of old coins and back again.  Carefully, she extended her Slayer senses…

There it was.  Subtle; she would have missed it if she hadn’t decided to look for it.  Figg wasn’t human.  He had that almost-smell she usually got off of demons, different from the not-quite-chill on her neck whenever a vamp was around, but she couldn’t pick up much else.  Whatever he was didn’t trip her senses very far – he probably wasn’t very strong or very dangerous then.  But still – he was here, in the middle of nowhere, in the same place Spike was supposed to be trapped and in danger.  Buffy wasn’t willing to ignore that.  Couldn’t afford it.

Spike couldn’t afford it.

“Why don’t you show us what you really look like,” offered Buffy, “and we’ll tell you why we came.”

“Buffy?” whispered Xander.

“Demon,” she murmured back.

“I, I, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Figg.  “It’s the weather.  It’s too muggy.  That’s what it is, boy I tell you what.  They should be here.  Not nice.”  He backed up toward the far wall of the potting shed.  “Not their fault.  He said – but it isn’t true.  Not kind.  They just couldn’t.”

“Who said, Mr. Figg?” Xander asked softly.  Took a cautious step toward the old man, holding his hands out to his sides.

“The help,” he said.  “Company came.  They never stay.  They help me wait, but they never stay.  Don’t even say goodbye.  And he said harsh things.  About the family.  About my flock.  Unkind things. Untrue.”  His hands flexing, curling and uncurling on the edge of the workbench.  “They’re coming back.  They’re not.  They just went away for awhile.  They’re not.  They’re not.”

“Not what, Mr. Figg?” said Xander.  “I don’t understand.”

Figg paused, looked Xander in the eye.  “I don’t understand either,” he said worriedly.  “But you’re not supposed to – ”  Reached out sideways and without looking, took a shovel down from its hook on the wall and swung it at Xander.

Buffy yanked him out of the way by the back of his collar, the shovel whooshing through the air where his head had been only an instant before.  Using Xander’s backward momentum, she propelled herself forward and kicked the old man in the stomach, hard enough to double him over.  Something fell out of his overalls pocket…

…and just like that they were facing a demon who looked like nothing so much as an impossibly old sheep.  His horns curled all the way from his temples to his neck and back around to his ears – which did a lot to explain why his hair stuck out the way it did in his human disguise – and his eyes were the color of old coins.  Sideways pupils.  His hands had thick almost-hooves for fingernails, but they still had dirt underneath and he still looked, somehow, like somebody’s favorite grandpa.

If, you know, your grandpa happened to be a sheep demon.

“That wasn’t nice,” he said with a grunt.  Lowered his head and pawed the ground.  “Not ladylike.  Not respectful.  You young people today, I just don’t know what they teach you.”

He swung the shovel again.  Buffy caught it, spun away, and slapped a sickle off the table.  It twirled through the air and into her hand, and in one smooth motion she ducked under the shovel and around, and buried its curved point in Figg’s chest.  Perfect heart-shot as she danced backwards, out of range.

Figg dropped to his knees, staring at her with an expression that looked like nothing so much as simple confusion.  “I don’t –“ he began.  Looked past her to the doorway, and whispered, “Maglia?”

Smiled.

Buffy ducked and spun, but there was no one else there.  She heard a thud and turned back in time to see the sickle pierce through Figg’s back as he landed full on his face, and began to dissolve.

Somebody’s favorite grandpa.  Only now he was nothing but liquid, trickling across the floor and turning to steam.

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the hissing of Figg’s remains and the drip-plop of liquid falling into his compost pit.  Finally he was completely gone, and Xander asked quietly, “Is it just me, or was that a weirder encounter than usual?”

“Who knows,” Buffy said.  He’d been charming.  Harmless.   Just a confused old man, right up until she had to kill him. “Since when does anything get to make sense for me?”  She still wasn’t even completely sure why he’d attacked.  Wasn’t sure Figg even knew.  He’d only asked them odd questions and spoken gibberish at the end. 

She didn’t understand.  Didn’t want to think about it.

So she did the only thing she could and pulled out the skull ring on its chain again.  _Where are you, Spike?_ she asked it.

The chain snapped and the ring went sailing, arcing, falling with a “ _sploop_ ” into the cistern in the corner of the room.

* * *

 

He was… almost… there was nothing… Drusilla standing there in front of him, keeping him company.  Sometimes her mouth would move, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying.  He was pretty sure he was almost done.  _I’m sorry, Buffy_ , his only coherent thought.

Suddenly he felt something go away – a pull that he hadn’t noticed until it stopped.  A drain that wasn’t there anymore.

The magic was done.  Completed?  Broken?  Spike didn’t know.  He was still here, barely, as far as he could tell.  Unable to move or see or hear or speak.  Only able to feel pain and hunger…  Maybe he wasn’t here anymore.  Or maybe he’d died, and that was what he’d felt just then.  He was pretty sure he’d had that thought before.

Drusilla looked up and away from him, suddenly.  At least he hadn’t been alone, here at the end.

Something small and hard, like a pebble, smacked him in the side of the head.


	13. Fade to Gray, Cage of Colors

The two of them followed the flying talisman’s path.  Walked over to the compost pit and looked down.

“Oh. Ew”, said Buffy.

Xander sighed.  “I was afraid you’d say that,” he said. “Hand me that stepladder, would you?” He dragged it over and lowered it into the pit in the corner of the potting shed.  Took a deep breath before climbing down and in.

The cistern… was… disgusting.

About five feet across, with smooth concrete sides, cisterns were originally used as holding tanks for collected rainwater, acting as a kind of backup well for washing and any other job that didn’t require completely pure drinking water. Figg had decided to use this one as his compost pit, but unfortunately he’d never disconnected the old rain-collection pipes from the roof.  Now, his clippings and rotten vegetation floated in a thick layer over about three feet of fouled, slimy water, with at least another foot – at _least_ – of actual compost down underneath all that.  Wet compost is also known as mud. Slimy, black, silty, thick, gloppy, slippery mud.

And of course most people didn’t have dead bodies in their compost piles.  Xander had grabbed a fistful of shining white bone the first time he’d reached in, looking for Spike.  Pretty sure the bones weren’t human, either.  Now he was poking around with the handle of the shovel Figg had taken down from the wall.

Buffy refused to get anywhere near the smelly mess.  Xander didn’t blame her; he was just glad they’d had the foresight to pack an extra change of clothing apiece.  It was amazing how many different ways there were for a demon to destroy a person’s wardrobe.  And yeah, it was also a pretty safe bet he was never going to salvage this pair of jeans.

Just lovely.  Buffy got the life-threatening jobs.  Xander only got the disgusting ones.

Although to be fair, he could tell Buffy was still upset over having to kill Figg in the first place.  She was standing near a work bench, one covered in gift baskets and different kinds of wrapping, twisting a bit of pale green ribbon around and around in her fingers, back and forth, back and forth.

It was almost the color of Figg’s eyes.

Xander glanced over his shoulder at her as he poked through the sludge in the pit.  Her face was thinner than he remembered, with hollows under the eyes that spoke of more than just one week’s jet lag wearing her down.  She didn’t eat much, didn’t talk much when he was home with her… and she’d actually jumped when he had slung that first false-alarm handful of bones up and out of the hole and onto the floor of the shed.

Yeah, the Xan-Man might have a reputation for stupidity – and God knew he’d worked hard to earn it – but it didn’t take a genius to look at his friend and start worrying.

Wait – there.  Xander braced himself and reached down and into the stench and the slime.  Up to his armpit – up to his chin – eugh – got him.  Upper arm, and there was a chain wrapped around him.  Xander started to lift, hoping the chain wasn’t attached to anything in the bottom of the tank.

“Buffy – little help – found him!”

Spike’s head cleared the sludge, lolling forward on his neck and utterly limp.  Explained why he wasn’t putting up a struggle, at least.  Xander got one arm hooked around his chest, lifeguard-style, and started lugging him up the stepladder.

And _of course,_ they’d no sooner hauled Spike up and onto the floor of the shed, legs still dangling over the side of the tank, when the rung he was standing on snapped, and Xander plunged back down and under a foot of rotten weeds and three feet of slimy stagnant water, to land on his ass in the muck.

“Xander!”

He came up sputtering, standing chest-deep in the cistern and wiping God-knew-what from his face.  Pretty sure he’d landed on another set of bones, too.  Buffy looked pretty freaked out, once he got his good eye open.  “I’m okay, just give me a hand up,” he said.  Spit the taste of spoiled lettuce out of his mouth. “Ladder’s toast.”

And it was, too.  Before Xander’s eyes, the wood of the rungs rotted and crumbled away, and the metal fittings rusted into uselessness, before the entire thing collapsed next to him and sank with barely a noise and a bubble to show where it had stood.

Maybe he should have been more surprised by this.  Life on the Hellmouth.  Makes a man jaded, after awhile.

Buffy grabbed his wrists – let’s hear it for Slayer strength – and he managed to clamber, sopping wet and more than a little annoyed, back onto solid ground.  Scraped blackened, dead leaves out of his hair.  “What the hell was that about?” he asked.

As if in reply, they both heard glass shatter out beyond the doorway.  When they looked out into the greenhouse, what they saw stopped them dead in their tracks.

The panes of glass in the greenhouse ceiling were falling in, crashing among the plants and along the walkways.  But the plants themselves were dying, fading and wilting before their eyes as weeds sprung up, impossibly quickly.  Tables collapsed, faded and gray as if they’d aged decades in only a few seconds, spilling dirt and pots across the floor, which cracked and pitted as they watched.

Looking outside, they watched as the grass grew tall, faded and yellowed, then bowed over, choked with weeds.  Shrubs shot up a foot or more in height, sometimes collapsing again, sometimes continuing to leap skyward; tree limbs thickened and a few cracked and fell from their trunks.  Shingles slid off the roof of the old farmhouse and an entire wall caved in, wooden siding clattering to the ground in a cloud of dust.  The paint faded from a cheerful yellow-and-white to dingy gray, finally flaking off and leaving only patches behind.  Windows fell out of their casings.  The chimney collapsed.

Buffy came to her senses first.

“The van!”

Shit.  Xander slopped toward the nearest door, staggering as he tried to yank keys out of a soaking wet pocket, and shoved his way across the overgrown parking lot –

 – but the van was fine.  In danger of getting its axles tangled in weeds, but nothing worse than that.  Engine started first try, the things they’d brought were all intact (Xander grabbed a tarp to sit on), even his drive-through soda was still cold and fizzy.  Whatever was happening to Figg’s land, it didn’t seem to be affecting them or their stuff.

Xander drove carefully across the yard, dodging brush that hadn’t been there a minute ago, and turned to back the van up to the potting shed doors.  It was still broad daylight; the shorter the distance they had to carry the bloodsucking undead, the better.

So he was staring right at the little building through the rear door windows when the roof caved in.

“Buffy!”

* * *

 

She’d heard the thunder-crack of the roof beam splitting, and had managed to shove Spike’s limp body under the nearest workbench, but was just a hair too slow in following him.

Now she was standing in a gray place, alone, with nothing around her that she could see.  She spun in a slow circle, looking for a way out, and when she came back to her starting point Drusilla was standing before her, dangerously close, watching her.  Buffy leaped backward into a defensive crouch.  Felt in her waistband for a stake.  Came up empty.

“You’re safe here, Slayer,” said the vampire.  “Nothing can harm you.”

“And I’m supposed to take your word on that?” Buffy glared.

But Drusilla didn’t rise to her bait.  Said only, “There is something you need to see.”  She gestured, half-shrugging, half-beckoning to Buffy.

And then there were three pools of color, red, black, and white, equally spaced around them, each only a few steps away.

“Will you not look?” asked Drusilla.

“What is this?” Buffy wanted to know.  Not letting her guard down.

“It’s Spike,” she replied.

Buffy frowned.  Stepped toward the red pool.  Gasped.

The color was coming from a glowing welter of… wires/cord/bars?… surrounding a naked form lying stretched, spread-eagled, on the gray floor.  Spike.  Buffy could just make out his features inside the net/cage/web covering him.  As she watched, he writhed within their bonds, barely enough space to move more than a few inches, crying out whenever he touched one.  At least, she thought he was crying out – she could see his face contort but couldn’t hear a sound.

“Red for flesh and blood,” murmured Drusilla.  Buffy looked up, surprised the other woman could sneak up on her like that, but instead of seeing her she found herself looking at the black area she’d seen earlier.  A pool of darkness and shadow in the gray nothing.

Spike was inside again, still naked, but this time with his game face on.  His eyes glowed gold in the dark and his fangs flashed around a gag that looked like it was made of black iron.  He roared and hissed, the sound garbled, spittle dribbling down his chin like a rabid beast.  Vamped-out Spike flung himself wildly against the bars of a black cage, only to be thrown back with equal violence.  His hands were crooked like claws and she saw his nails had grown into talons, needle-sharp.  Black burns crisscrossed his body wherever he touched the cage, but he didn’t stop throwing himself at it as hard as he could.

It was hurting him, Buffy could see, but he wouldn’t stop.  Tears welled up, in her dream.

“Black for the demon within,” whispered Drusilla.

Buffy blinked, and without moving found herself staring into the white light of the third pool.  Huddled within this one was a man with soft brown hair instead of familiar blond, but when he looked up, he had Spike’s blue eyes, Spike’s anguished face.

William.  Buffy wasn’t sure how she knew.

There was a white mist surrounding him, like a fog, only it swelled and moved as though a wind were stirring it.  Whenever it brushed past William he would flinch and cover his head where he knelt, cowering at the far edge of the light.  Tears rolled down his cheeks and his ears were bleeding, if it could really be called blood.  A thin diluted fluid, glistening in the light as it trickled down the side of his neck.

Buffy almost missed the gaping wound in his chest, over his heart.  It glowed white, so bright she could barely look at it.

“White for the soul he bears,” said Drusilla.

The three images merged, and dimmed, until she was looking at a faintly rose-colored shape.  It made her dizzy to see all three Spikes inside it.  Made her sick to watch them all weaken and fade, gradually stop struggling and drop, exhausted, to the gray floor.

“Remember this, Slayer,” said Drusilla.  Her voice fading too.  “White first, then black, then red.  The binding must be removed in the same order as it was placed.  Take the chain, break the bone; then remember the colors.  White, then black, then red.  You mustn’t forget this, Slayer.”

“I won’t,” whispered Buffy.

“Swear it,” said Drusilla.  Suddenly before her, eyes intense.  “Swear it on your love for him.”

“I swear,” said Buffy.

“And one more is the charm,” said the vampire.  “The charm – remember it:

 _Red for flesh and blood_  
Black for the demon within  
White for the soul he bears.  
Take the chain  
Break the bone  
White, then black, then red  
End at his toes, begin at his head  
To bring your lover home.

Promise me!” commanded Drusilla.

“I promise,” said Buffy, the dream giving her the words, “Three times I swear it, three times binding, thrice I say and done.  I will remember.  I will not forget…”

She could feel Xander shaking her shoulder.  Her eyes opened.

“…I will bring him home.”

“Buffy?”  Her eyes focused gradually, until finally she could make out Xander’s worried features.  “Hey.  Buffy?  You okay?”

“Fine,” she mumbled.  Struggled to sit up.  “I’m…” she felt.  Nothing hurt.  A little ache on the back of her head, nothing serious.  “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Kneeling in a pile of aged timbers, hands scraped and shaking.

“Yeah,” she said.  Buffy got to her knees and started shoving wood and shingles out of the way.  She had to get to Spike.

“I couldn’t get you to wake up,” Xander said.  He swallowed, hard.  Hands weren’t the only thing shaking when he said it.

She threw the now-ancient ruins to one side, leaving only the main part of the workbench to shield Spike’s bound body from the sun, now that the building was open to the sky.

“There was something I needed to see,” was all she said.

* * *

 

Finally, finally, they were on their way.

They’d slung a tarp over Spike and hauled him into the back of the waiting van, laying him on a camp cot they’d brought in case they needed something to use as a stretcher.  After a bit of discussion, Xander was leading the way home, driving Spike’s predatory little roadster while Buffy manhandled the van along and hoped she didn’t have to deal with too many corners before they reached the interstate.

It was all she could do not to look back at him every three seconds.  She kind of needed to keep her eyes on the road if she wanted to make it back to Toledo, but it was hard.

Spike looked horrible.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting to find, but a naked, bloated, drowned corpse with the skin peeling off his hands and feet and all wrapped up in chains and string was not it.  Between her and Xander they’d managed to get most of the dead vegetation off of his face and out of his hair, but there was still plenty caught in the bindings, clinging to the chain that wound around him from neck to ankle.  Thick black mud was smeared all over him, gritting in his eyes and ears and hair, under his nails and fouling his teeth.  She didn’t want to think of all the places that filth had probably managed to creep.

Spike _oozed_ , dripping excess water off the cot and all over the floor of the van.  It would have been worse if Xander hadn’t remembered some technique from his days on the swim team and managed to shove most of the water out of Spike’s stomach and lungs before they’d gotten underway.  He looked like a bleached-out version of the Swamp Thing, and smelled like it too.  It would take a fire hose and a bucket of industrial-strength toilet-bowl cleaner to get him anywhere close to clean again…

 …and Buffy had never been so relieved and happy to see anyone in her entire life.  That was her story, anyway, and she was sticking to it.  Ignoring the little knot in her stomach so she could drive.

It was an hour and a half back to Toledo from here.  Give or take.  Depending on how religiously a person felt like following the speed limits.

Then they’d be safe.  Out of the sun, no rush to escape collapsing anythings, nowhere else they needed to direct their energies.  Then she could reverse the binding on him, set him free.

Bring him home.


	14. Unbinding, Helplessness

“So now what do we do?”  Xander asked.  They were home, the back doors open, and starting to slide Spike and his camp cot out into the garage.  It was dinner time, or close to it.

“Warm water and blood,” said Buffy.  “And I get this stuff off of him.  Break the spell.”

“Are you sure you want to do that without any backup?” he began.  “I mean, I’m no student of the dark arts here, but even I can tell this is a big nasty piece of – ow.”  He looked over his shoulder. Eye patch a blot of darkness on his face in the late afternoon sun.

“What’s wrong?”  Buffy adjusted the tarp over Spike’s body.  So far, he hadn’t regained consciousness and she was starting to worry.

Oh, who was she kidding.  Happy and relieved to see him again? Really?  She’d stuck with that story for as long as she could; the truth was, it was all she could do not to start hyperventilating.  There was no _starting to_ about her worry.  Only the fact that they weren’t lugging a stretcher full of dust gave her any comfort whatso-freaking-ever.  Any hope that Spike could come back from what had been done to him.

Xander was chuckling.  “I’m stuck,” he said.  “I didn’t think the garage counted as a threshold.  Or that I’d actually need to give Spike an invitation to enter, considering I’m in the middle of _lugging your unconscious undead ass inside bodily_.  Stupid…. Fine, I invite you in – whoa!”  The barrier vanished and Xander stumbled backwards, barely keeping his footing as Buffy fought to keep the cot steady.

“Anyway,” he went on.  “This is some pretty serious mojo.  I had Cathy look up binding spells while you were asleep this morning.  She basically said the more props the spell used, the worse it was.”  He raised his eyebrows at her.  “The more complicated to take off.”

“I can imagine,” said Buffy.  “But I… I’m pretty sure I know what to do with this one.  I – kinda saw it.  Back at the greenhouse.”

“You mean when you were…”

“Yup,” she said.  The lowered Spike carefully to the floor of the garage, flipping the legs of the cot out so that he rested about a foot off the concrete.  “There were all these colors that Spike was bound in, in different ways.  I mean they each did something different to him.  And there was a charm she gave me, to help me remember the sequence.”

“She, who?” asked Xander.

“Um,” said Buffy.  Looked away, rubbing her arms.  “Drusilla, kinda?  Only not.  Only maybe she was.  I dunno.”

“Buffy!” Xander ran his hands through hair caked with dried gunk from the cistern.  “Ugh.  Okay, never mind, you can probably already guess what I’m gonna say and I really want to take a shower.  I’d like to call Cathy or someone just to be on the safe side, but if you’re sure about this – ”

“Completely,” said Buffy.  “It’s a Slayer thing.  I can feel it.”

“Then let’s do it sooner rather than later,” he said, “so at least one of us can stop smelling like The Thing That Oozed From Okefenokee and start cooking dinner.  ‘Kay?”

Buffy was startled into a laugh.  “Yeah, okay.”  She reached inside the van and pulled out the cooler and their supplies.  “We’ll need blood for him as soon as he wakes up, and I’d like a bucket of warm water or a, a garden hose, or something to help rinse him off.”  Slapped the button to close the overhead door.

“You got it,” said Xander.

* * *

 

He was losing time… at least, he was pretty sure… he was, wasn’t he?  That sense you get sometimes… really drunk… you know when something happens and then another thing happens and there was an… a thing… a gap between them, but you missed it?  Like time… time passing without bringing him along for the ride.

Hard to tell, trapped as he was.

Mostly just pain though… maybe a little confused.  He ought to be confused, yeah?  Confusing… Figg pulling him out of the water.  Shoved on his stomach… on his… and his chest… always good for… few laughs, that was.  What with the broken bones and all… but then, as far as he could remember… it was hard to remember.  But he was pretty sure… pretty sure.  Not totally… but… pretty sure Figg hadn’t tried to feed him yet.  Not yet.

Pretty sure.  As blinding as the hunger was, he was pretty sure he’d remember it.  Wouldn’t he?  Or maybe… it’d block out everything… block out the rest of it… everything else by now, including memory?  He couldn’t tell.

At some point he’d felt his body shaken about, vibrating almost.  Didn’t make sense.

Cracked skull, though.  He remembered that.  Maybe that was why it was hard to think… no.  No, that was the sodding spell, don’t be an idiot…

The skin-crawling sensation of crossing a threshold.  Maybe now he was dead, and he’d just crossed over?

 _Wanker_ , he thought. _You’re not… not allowed to die yet.  We still… we… there’s Buffy… need to go to her._

Pillock.  Invited across a threshold… vamp, right… he had to be.  Had to be invited.  Couldn’t die without being invited… that was funny.  Explained a lot, that did.

Explained a lot of… something.  There was something… Hard to think.

There was a jolt.

* * *

 

“Okay, so ‘take the chain’ makes sense,” said Xander, gesturing at the links wrapped around Spike’s body.  “But what is ‘break the bone’ supposed to mean?  I mean.  I mean, we’re not supposed to – you know – actually break his bones, are we?”

“Maybe he has some kind of talisman on him that we can’t see from here,” said Buffy, carefully unwinding the links around Spike’s ankles.  “Oh, God,” she breathed.  “What did they _do_ to you?”

Spike’s flesh was puffy, bloated with water after having been submerged for who knew how long.  Everywhere she pressed, she left dimples.  No, it was worse than that – she left dimples, with her fingerprints clearly visible in them, all over his skin.  Every link of chain she pulled away left its mark behind.  The thing was as much sunken into him as it was wrapped around him.

His hands and feet had gotten a severe case of bathtub-wrinkles, the skin actually peeling away from them to the point that his feet looked like he was wearing a pair of loose white socks.  She could barely stand to touch him, knowing that she was only knocking more of his skin away from the tissues underneath.  Might not be a big deal for a drowned corpse, but for one that was undead instead of dead-dead… she didn’t want to think about how much it had to hurt.  How much it would hurt once he woke up.

The swelling, the peeling skin, made the barbed wire wrapped around his ankles look even more hideous.  It was deeply embedded, the twisted wire cutting and the barbs tearing at his flesh – but she couldn’t just grab a pair of Xander’s wire snips and cut him free because there was also red cord wound around and through them.

Red had to wait for last.

She got about two feet along the chain when she felt something sharp poke her through the slime.  Dumping water over it, she found a fragment of bone wedged into the links, about the size and shape of the clarinet reeds Dawn kept leaving around the house back when she was in band, in the sixth grade.  Only Dawn’s reeds didn’t have freaky magic sigils etched into them.

“Break the bone,” she murmured, holding it up for Xander to see.

When she snapped it, Spike’s toes twitched.

“Here,” she told Xander, “pour the bucket over him, try and rinse off the chain.  I’m gonna feel around and see if I can find more of these.”

Together they worked their way up the chain, slowly peeling it away from Spike’s legs, sitting him up to free his arms and torso, and finally clearing his neck.  They found eight more pieces of bone, and each one they snapped in half made Spike twitch or flinch in some way.

Finally the chain was removed, and Spike lay on the cot, dripping with warm water, a towel protecting his dignity.  He was still wound about with filthy cord, but it had been rinsed well enough they could see what color it was all supposed to be.  They could also see the barbed wire around his wrists, every bit as bad as his ankles, the skin gloves peeling away from his hands, and the marks…

God, he was covered with markings, weird runes and sigils cut directly into his skin, strange almost-words that made Buffy’s eyes hurt if she looked at them too long.  They crisscrossed his body, crawled up his arms and down his legs, were cut into the soles of his feet and, if she had to guess, the palms of his hands as well.  Everywhere the cuts were peeling strips of dead white skin, and the extra fluid in his body made the wounds gape to show pale, gray-pink tissue underneath.

Buffy was relieved, at first, that none of the wounds started to bleed when she accidentally bumped them, or when the chain came away.  Then she stopped and thought about what it meant, that a vampire wasn’t leaking blood where he was cut open.

Spike was in really bad shape.

* * *

 

Something was happening to him.  Something was happening to him, and Spike couldn’t see or move or hear or do anything to fight whatever it was.  Or help… wasn’t sure which.  Couldn’t be sure… had no way to find out – and it was driving… driving him crazy.

There were hands on him.  Not Figg’s – they didn’t have those… that callused feel or the, the almost-hooves… ‘stead of fingernails – and they were _doing things_ to him.

He thought maybe they were trying to help.  Pretty sure the hands were taking the chain off his body… felt a faint, distant hope – they might keep going, yeah?  Set him free?  Maybe he’d still be… still be able to feed himself – if he could open his soddin’ eyes… if he could move.  Maybe… maybe he’d still be able to get to Buff – to get to, to Buffy.

But mostly, those hands… they just hurt like bloody hell.

If he could have… would’ve screamed, thrashed when… oh, Christ, when they bent his knees up… gettin’ at the chain under his legs.  Would have cursed – they sat him up, broken ribs shoving and… and sliding against one another.  Probably would’ve moaned whether he wanted to or not – would’ve – when they laid him back down…  cracked skull… felt every tiny impact, even though he was pretty sure… not completely, but pretty sure… that whoever it was, they were trying to be gentle with him.

It was better with the chains off.  Still wasn’t breathing, still couldn’t… his lungs felt heavy in his chest.  The runes carved into his skin, those still burned, and he still was entirely helpless to move or speak… but this… at least this much, they’d taken away… taken from his portion.  And the warm water he felt pouring over him was sodding divine.

But then there were those jolts.  Every so often, the hands would stop what they were doing… a pause, yeah?... and then an elec – a shock through his body… all down his spine… his feet… the soles of his feet.  Thought he felt himself twitching, once or twice.

What the bleed… what… bleeding hell was that about?

Be just his luck… get found by someone – rescued – only they turn out to be some kinda… some mad scientist… some warlock.  Experimentin’ on him.  Cut him up for parts, maybe.  _Use_ him.

He was so bloody tired of being used.

Bloody tired all over.  Sodding spell… near sucked him dry.  A battery almost run out of charge, he was.  Barely hanging in there… barely hangin’ on – but the jolts wouldn’t let him rest ( _can we rest now, Buffy?_ ).  Drusilla was gone… not sure… is he alone now or not?  Helpless… at their hands… at the hands of friends or enemies.  Too tired to be afraid about that.  Too exhausted to hate it.

He could only lay there like a dead thing, and wait to see what would happen to him next.

* * *

 

When Spike’s body was finally free of the chain, they paused for a moment.  Buffy looked at the pile of bone fragments on the floor of the garage.  Nudged them with her toe.

“Does your witch friend have any idea what we should do with those?” she asked.

“Not sure,” said Xander.  “But I know if you want to get rid of something completely, burning it is never a bad idea.”

Buffy looked around the garage for a second, then got up and dragged a little charcoal grill out of its corner.  “Do it,” she said.  “I’ll wait, make sure it doesn’t do anything to Spike.”

“You okay, Buff?” he asked.  Squinted at her, watching how she moved around the garage.  Not pacing.  She wasn’t.

“I just – yeah,” she said.  “I just need a minute.”  She waved at the grill.  “You do your thing and I’ll… watch.”

“If you say so,” he replied.  Stretched.  Moved the grill over to the back door and opened it for ventilation.  “Hard concrete floor and my knees. Bad combination.”

Buffy nodded, not really paying attention.  She was… it… she had no idea what she was feeling.  Part of her wanted to grab Spike by the shoulders and shout at him, wake him up, yell at him for leaving her alone the past year.  Part of her just wanted to wake him up, period, to see his blue eyes open and aware and looking at her and _going to be okay_.  Part of her wanted to wrap him up in her arms and never, ever let go.  And part of her couldn’t stand to touch him, knowing how badly he was injured, knowing she was hurting him no matter how gentle she tried to be.

It made her hands itch, and she kept tensing her arms and then having to force them to relax.

It made her heart hurt.

“Okay, I got the fire going,” said Xander.  “Could you hand me the… Buffy?”  He stepped over to her.

“What?  Oh.”  She sniffed, wiped at her eyes.  Not many clean spots left on these sleeves.  “Here.” Handed him the bone.  “Tell me as soon as you put them on, so I can see whether he reacts.”

“Yup,” said Xander.  “Okay, now.”

Spike didn’t move, didn’t seem to be suffering… but he started to sweat.

To drip, actually, the extra fluid in his limbs finding its way out through his ravaged skin.  Buffy watched as the hideous puffiness faded away and his joints became visible again.  Watched him grow thinner.  Watched him grow thinner still.

Too thin.

“Xander, stop!”


	15. Cutting the Cord, Breaking Free

Buffy heard a splash behind her, steam hissing as Xander put the fire out, but it was too late.  Water dripped from the bottom of the cot and trickled across the floor, and Buffy sobbed.  Spike seemed to shrivel in on himself, the bones appearing under his skin, stark and horrible and emaciated.

Skeletal.

She’d seen Spike nude before, plenty of times, but she’d never seen him look so naked.

“Buffy, what hap – oh, my God,” said Xander.

Spike had no spare muscle left, anywhere on him.  She could see the tendons surrounding his joints.  She could see every bone in his ribcage, see where three of them were broken and misaligned.  Could see a kneecap split into two pieces.

God, he’d had broken bones and they’d just been shoving him around like a floppy ragdoll, like it was nothing.  Like he couldn’t possibly have any injuries underneath the obvious ones.

She was so stupid.

And while she was having a fit of the womanly vapors, Spike was laying there sweating swampy bilge water out of his system and looking more and more like a corpse who’d died of starvation rather than by drowning.

She clenched her hands into fists, shoving the knuckles into her forehead.  Deep breaths, Buffy.  You can do this.  You’re not the one who’s hurt, here.  You’re the one who can help.  You can…

“Did we do this?” she asked.  Had to.

“No,” said Xander.

Buffy looked up at him, desperate to believe.

“Look,” he said, “Zer Moduz told us that he was caught by something that was making him weaker, right?  Something he couldn’t fight.  You remember when the Initiative got him, that first time he came to Giles’ house?”

“He was…” Buffy cast her mind back a few years.  “Yeah.  I remember.  He was thinner then, too.  You could see it in his face.”  She reached over toward Spike, let her hand hover near his cheek.  Sharp and fragile-looking as broken glass.  Not quite able to make herself touch.  “But this… this is so much worse.”  Looked back up at Xander.  “You’re really sure?”

“I’m positive,” he said.  “We’d have to put some effort into it – you know, recite an incantation or something, and, and _do things_ to him – in order to make something like this happen.”  He nudged the chain, gestured vaguely behind him.  “All this – we’re taking off what was done to him, Buff.  We’re making it better.”

“God, I hope you’re right,” she whispered brokenly.

“I’m positive,” he said again.  Wrapped her in a hug. “We’re making it better, Buff.  Spike will be okay.  We’re making it better.”

* * *

 

Something was changing.

Spike’s chest didn’t feel as heavy anymore.  It almost felt like he could breathe again – he tested it… no.  Not yet.

And it wasn’t just his chest, either.  His limbs, his body… he felt – lighter, somehow.  Almost as if he could move.

He tested that, too.  Tried to pull at his bonds the way he’d struggled before, when Figg first put them on him.  He didn’t expect to actually get any motion, not just yet, but… maybe a little tension…

There. Yes. Pretty sure his arms just tightened, the tiniest bit.  Pretty sure his fingers moved, a little.  The bindings still held him; he was still paralyzed.  The effort to move had nearly pushed him under and into unconsciousness, again. 

But whatever these new hands were doing, it was definitely helping.

Making things better.

* * *

 

Buffy was shaking.  She could do this, she kept telling herself.  She could do this.  She had to.  Had to be strong.  For Spike.

It had been so long since she’d needed to be strong for the people around her.  She hadn’t missed it.  Had really, really appreciated the chance to just let go and be Buffy instead of “Slayer, The”, general of the armies against the apocalypse – version whatever. But in exchange it seemed as if she’d gotten weaker, somehow, in the past year.  As if some kind of muscle had atrophied inside her, something that she used to be able to flex whenever she needed to be… grim.  Hard and cold and grim.

You know – strong.  For other people.

She swallowed, hard, once, twice.  Deep breaths.  Three times.  _You can do this_ , she thought.  _Spike needs you to do this.  You can fall apart – no, really, you can – just later.  You can fall apart later.  You can do this._

Gradually, she untangled herself from Xander’s embrace.  Scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.  Smelled swamp and rot, soaked into her skin.  “I’m… mostly okay,” she said.  “Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” said Xander gently.  “You’re not okay, and you shouldn’t be.  Not looking at this.”

Buffy looked up at him in shock.  He just shrugged.

“Channeling Anya,” he said, smiling sheepishly.  “Too much?”

Another laugh he startled out of her.  He was getting good at that.  “Sounded just like her,” she said, sniffling.

“It’s true, though,” said Xander.  Shoved his hands in his pockets.  Grimaced, took them back out again.  “If it were her?  Laying on that cot…” he looked away for a second.  “Yeah.  You’re not supposed to be okay.  But you can keep it together for just a little longer, right?”  He tipped her chin up, his good eye gazing into both of hers in turn. “Right?”

“Yeah,” she said.  Closed her eyes for a second, steeling herself to turn back around and look at the man she loved, so wrecked right now.  Depending on her.  “Yeah, for a little while longer.”

She turned around.

“Okay,” she said.  “Okay.  Scissors next, for the cord.”  Xander reached out and pulled them off his workbench, handed them to her.  “White, then black, then red,” she muttered to herself.

“What was that?” he asked.

“The charm,” said Buffy, “from my dream.  Remember, I told you each color did something different to him?  Part of the charm went ‘Red for flesh and blood, black for the demon within, white for the soul he bears’.  I need to cut them in a certain order – soul first, then demon, then body.  White, then black, then red.”

She reached out, slid her scissors under the white cord that now draped loosely across his chest.  There was an elaborately tied knot just over his heart.

Cut.

* * *

 

Might’ve spoke too soon.

Helping, he’d thought the hands were… but now he could feel something cold and metallic sliding along his chest. Knife blade, maybe.  Flashed back to his concern, faint, that someone had decided to use him for magical spell ingredients, or experiment on his body while he couldn’t do anything to fight it.

Distantly he felt his demon stir.  Anger, far away.  And then the blade moved, and…

Fear!  Fear and confusion, worry, love, Buffy, need – get away make it stop what where why

He was afraid.  God, he was terrified. What were they doing to him?  Where had they taken him?  He couldn’t see, needed to see, at least that, let _them_ see, let him go and make the whole thing stop, mercy, he was scared, what they wanted, they were getting it, couldn’t they tell that much?  Did they have to hurt him to get it?  Figg – was this part of his spell, squeeze his emotions to get the last of his strength before he – before – he didn’t want to die.  Not yet.  Not when he knew where he was headed.

Not when he hadn’t answered Buffy’s call for help.  She needs you.  Go to her.

Let go, he needed to go, get out, get away… Buffy…

_Let us go!_

* * *

 

“Here, lift his arms up for me,” said Buffy, “careful, careful – go easy… there.”  As gently as she could, she worked the white cord up past Spike’s shoulders, lifting him the barest amount possible so as not to disturb his ribs any further.  She slid it out from behind his neck and handed it to Xander.

Settled his bony arms back in place, just letting his wrists rest on her palms.  She was scared to grip something that looked so fragile.  Like trying to handle bird bones.

“Should I try and get the grill started again?” he asked.

Buffy bit her lip.  “I wasn’t sure if we should try and untie the knot first, or just light it up.  Your call – or, you know, you could get your friend on the phone.  Cathy, right?”

“Yeah,” said Xander. Glancing away for just an instant.  Uh-huh.

“You’ll have to tell me what’s the what and how long you’ve been dating, once we’re done here,” said Buffy.

“We’re not – hey!  I mean, what?  I – how did you –” Xander stopped.  “Okay.  We haven’t actually started going out yet.  Just coffee and conversation at work.  _Professional,_ ” he insisted when Buffy raised an eyebrow at him.  “And so not relevant right now.”

“Sorry,” said Buffy. “Needed the break.”

“I figured,” he replied, “but let’s save my love life or total lack thereof for entertainment some other evening, all right?.”  He tossed the cord into the grill and held his lighter to it.  “This thing is soaked, Buff.  Doesn’t want to burn.”

“Keep at it,” she said.  Distracted as she slid the scissors under the black cord near his shoulder.

Cut.

* * *

 

Rage.

Ah, lovely wrath, how we’ve missed you.

Spike’s demon surged forward, free of the worst of its constraints, flinging itself at the remainder of the spell.  Only the magic and his soul kept it in check.  How _dare_ they keep him in here, caged like a beast?  How dare Figg try to steal what belonged to Spike?

Well, no.  Actually the greed part he understood perfectly.

There’s a reason vampires can’t touch holy things.  Demons are all about the seven deadlies, they are.  Greed, gluttony, pride… oh, sweet wrath… envy… lovely, luscious, lascivious lust…

Humans call them sins.  Demons call them a way of life.  Spike tended to call them a good weekend.

Never was much for sloth, though, come to think of it.  Tended to get in the way of a good time.

Demons, vampires’ demons anyway, are all about appetites.  And Spike’s demon had been forced to lie still like a good dog for far too long now.  He threw himself against the barriers again.  Tried to go into game face and couldn’t.  He was hungry, and horny, and very, very angry at what had been done to him.

He wanted food.  Blood, and lots of it.  He wanted to rip some young thing’s throat out and pour her life’s blood down his gullet until she was dry, then do it again, and again until he could take no more, and then do it one more time just because he could.

He wanted sex.  Wanted to feel his body under his own sodding control again, feel it respond to his commands, feel some other beauty respond to him too.  Play her like a violin and see how high a note she could hit.

‘Course, he was exhausted enough and weak enough right now that sloth was beginning to have some appeal after all.

He wanted… wanted Buffy.

Wanted to go to her.  Wanted to lay in her arms and sleep, all his appetites sated, his anger appeased, and let his guard drop.  A predator knowing he was safe from petty scavengers and carrion eaters, taking pleasure in comfort.  Give in to this exhaustion, this deadly weakness, knowing she would watch over him while he slept ( _can we rest now, Buffy?_ ).

Wanted her.  Just her, and sod the rest of it.  He’d be her good dog, give it all up, if it meant he could have her.  Just to be near her again.  Go to her.  She needs you.

His demon stirred again, weakly, but still fully present at last.  Still angry.

_Let us out._


	16. Blood, Tears

At last, Buffy was ready to take the red cords off.  Xander had a good fire going in his grill and the white and black cords sizzled and popped, still wet from their recent rinse but turning to fine powdery ash easily enough.  Buffy wasn’t sure whether to be worried or relieved that burning them hadn’t seemed to cause any reaction in Spike’s body, the way destroying the slivers of bone had.  Maybe it was something that they would have noticed if Spike were conscious – white for soul, black for demon?  Yeah, that must have been it.

She looked at Spike’s face, drew a thumb across his scarred eyebrow.  His hair was still filthy, but drying, and already beginning to spring up into the soft curls she loved so much.  It was a pity that she’d never let herself touch them, that year they’d been sleeping together.  Couldn’t permit herself that tenderness.  She’d only gotten to feel how soft his hair really was by accident, times when she’d touched his face – and once deliberately, the night they’d just held one another, the night before they’d faced the First.

The night before he’d died.

Now he laid there looking like a terminal cancer patient, all the bones of his face showing, eyes sunken and shadowed.  Bruised-looking.  And forget the hollows of his cheeks, he had hollows at his temples that she’d never seen before, and under his jaw at his throat…

But never mind.  Because he also had a red cord wound around his head, not even enough to cover his eyes but Buffy guessed in magic it was the symbol that counted.  Another one at his throat, and bands around his upper arms, his thumbs for some reason, upper legs and calves, and his toes.  All of them too loose on his thin frame.  There was another under the towel, around his waist – and around his… well… you know.

No idea what that was supposed to be about.

White, then black, then red; end at the toes, start at the head.  All right then.  Buffy gently slid the scissors in next to his temple, watching out for his hair, and cut the first red cord.

She actually jumped when Spike’s eyes opened.

“Spike?” she called softly.  “Spike, are you – can you hear me?”

“Buffy?” Xander, over by the door with the grill.

“He’s,” she swallowed, “I think he’s awake.”

“I’ll go heat some blood,” he answered.  Lunged for the cooler, pulling out a couple of bags and disappearing into the house.

Spike’s eyes looked wrong.  They were covered in a thin film, like cataracts, leaving them a milky gray-blue instead of their usual intense color.  From being underwater, maybe?  Buffy didn’t know.  He blinked, eyes darting from side to side.  Squinted, blinked some more.  At first he didn’t seem to see her, but when she moved his eyes snapped to her face.  She smiled.  God, she’d prayed for a chance to see him again, and here he was.  Buffy blinked too, fighting back tears again, only for once they weren’t painful.  Tried to hold back a sob that was at least partly a laugh.

Except – he didn’t react.  Didn’t even take a breath like he usually did.

“Spike?”  She raised a hand to touch him, and his eyes jumped to that, blinking rapidly as if he was trying to clear his vision. His brows furrowed, but the rest of his face added nothing to the expression.

Slowly, carefully, she moved her hand down, letting him track the motion as best he could.  Brushed her knuckles across his cheek, soft, soft.  Like stroking a baby.  He might still be hurt somewhere that didn’t show – you needed blood to make a bruise and he didn’t seem to have any to spare.

Spike closed his eyes.  Opened them, looking at nothing.

Blinked again as tears fell.

* * *

 

Oh, God, it couldn’t be.

He couldn’t see her; everything looked as though he were peering through mist, a real London pea-soup fog.  Shapes and shadows, nothing more.  Sounds were watery, better than nothing, but still muffled, indistinct.  He’d take what he could get after so long without, and no mistake.  And he knew he’d heal if he fed, eventually.  He’d get his sight back; his hearing would clear up.  But right now, they couldn’t tell him what he needed to know.

Drusilla had said Buffy would come for him, and he hadn’t let himself believe.  Hoped, and tried not to.  She wouldn’t want him.  Why should she?  Why would she drop everything, hearing he was in trouble?  Trouble was the story of his life, no skin off her nose if he found more of it, yeah?

But oh, he knew that touch.  Wished he could confirm with sight or hearing, or even with scent, but he was almost certain.

_Buffy, is that really you?_

If it was… if it was, he would be safe.  At the very least she’d give him a place to recover before she threw him out.  Even when they’d been enemies she’d done that.

Fingers on his eyebrow, toying with his scar.  Knuckles on his cheek.  He knew those touches like he knew his own hands.

Buffy.

He was safe.  Weak almost to the point of torpor, worn, enervated and exhausted and more than half-starved… but finally safe, rescued from Figg’s magics.  She was here.  She was real.  It was finally over.

He had no strength left to hold back his tears.

* * *

 

“Hey, scoot over,” said Xander.  He set two large mugs on the work table, brought over a little TV-table under one arm.  “Let me set this up, get you a camp chair, all that stuff.”  Clatter of metal legs snapping in place.  “One of those mugs is for you, by the way.”

“Thanks, Xan,” said Buffy.  She looked to his expert eye – just the one, ha ha – like she was nearly at the end of her rope.  Trying to relax, trying to believe everything would be okay, and really, really needing to fall apart.

“He’s really awake?” he asked.  Handed her the coffee, set the pig-blood on the little table.

“Yeah,” she said.  “There’s – there’s something wrong with his eyes.  But I think he can make out movement.”  She swallowed, voice gone wobbly again.  God, he felt for her.  “I think he knows it’s me.”

He reached over, squeezed her shoulder gently.  “Hey.  Hey,” he said, waiting for her to look at him.  “Buffy, that’s great news.”

“Yeah,” she whispered.  Covered her sniffle with a slurp of coffee.  She set the mug down and picked up the scissors again.  “He still hasn’t said anything.  I don’t think he can, yet.  Let me get the rest of this crap off him.”

She cut the cord at his throat, and he exhaled in a rush, starting to cough and gasp and choke.  They turned him on his side, facing away from them, careful of his ribs – not that it did much good.  They could only watch as Spike hacked up a lungful of water, his whole body convulsing painfully, hands still bound awkwardly in front of him.  The towel at his waist slipped with the force of his coughing, and Xander could see the bones at his hips jutting through too-pale skin.  All the ribs along his back.  All the knobs along his spine.

 _Jesus_ , was the first thought that crossed his mind.

Spike hadn’t looked this bad since… ever, Xander thought.  Not even when Glory beat the hell out of him that one time.  And the First had wanted to punish him, not kill him, so he managed to get out of that one mostly intact.  This was… wow.

Finally the fit subsided, and they gently brought him onto his back again, where he lay with his eyes tight with pain, panting shallowly and trying to clear his nose.  Buffy still had some warm water left over from earlier, so she pulled a washcloth out of the bucket and wiped his face for him.  He’d coughed so hard there were tears on his face, and he watched as she wiped those away too.  Wiped the corners of his eyes, where the cloth came away gray with silted mud.

Eventually Buffy moved to his arms and started taking off the loops of cord there.  One by one, he flexed muscles that looked like nothing more than rope strung along beneath his skin.  Twitched, really.  With the shape he was in, Xander figured Spike probably didn’t have strength for much else.  She took a pair of wire snips from Xander’s hand and got to work on the barbed wire at his wrists.

Spike tried to speak.  The muscles in his abdomen tightened, just a fraction, and a whisper of sound passed his cracked lips – but no words.  His face was still, except for his eyes.

He tried again, with the same result.

“Spike?” Buffy leaned in, trying to listen.  “Are we… does it hurt?”

“Why isn’t his mouth moving?” asked Xander.

Buffy flinched.  “Because I’m an idiot,” she said sourly.  “In my dream I saw he was wearing a gag.  I _saw_ it.  How could I forget?  Damn it.”

“So what’s the big?” he asked.  “You forgot, you go back, you take it off now.  No problem, right?”

“I hope so,” she said, setting the snips aside.  “But Drusilla – dream-Drusilla, I mean – she was pretty clear that I had to go in order from head to toe.  If missing his mouth messed up the sequence…”

“One way to find out,” said Xander.

“Yeah,” she replied.  Gently, cautiously, pried open Spike’s mouth.  From where he was standing Xander could see what looked like a wad of red, blocking the vampire’s tongue.  “Damn it.  Why am I so stupid.”

Using just two fingertips, she reached in and poked around until she found a loose tail in the mess of cord.  She began to pull, and the whole thing unraveled and slid out of his mouth – wait, had it actually been wrapped _around_ his tongue?

The cord came free.  Spike vamped out, and lunged – at Buffy.  Snarling softly, clouded yellow eyes half-shut, he simply whipped his head to the side and clamped down on the inside edge of her free hand, where she’d been holding his mouth open.

“Shit!”  Xander lunged for the mug of blood.

“Oh, my God,” Buffy sounded stunned.  “Xander, it’s – it’s okay. I’m okay.”

“What? How is – what?” Impossible.  Spike had gone nuts and was feeding on Buffy and she was cool with that?

“Look at him,” she said.  “He doesn’t have the strength… oh, my God.”  She’d started to shake.  “He isn’t even strong enough to break the skin.”

Sure enough, Xander could see the tips of Spike’s fangs, dimpling Buffy’s skin but not piercing it.  Spike worked his jaw, chewing and licking at her hand, but there was no blood anywhere for him to get at.  He shook his head once, a beast worrying at prey, trying to tear the flesh and failing.  He made a little noise in the back of his throat, a soft rumbling – something like a hungry tiger managing somehow to sound deadly and desperate at the same time.

Xander reached in carefully with the mug of warmed blood.  Spike’s nostrils twitched and he turned his head the other way.  Fangs slid off the webbing between Buffy’s thumb and pointer finger.

Between them, they tried to hold Spike’s head and pour blood into his mouth, but he was too far gone in his hunger to cooperate.  Instead of drinking he kept trying to bite at the mug, licking the edges or trying to shove his nose inside, while blood spilled down his chin.  His shoulders writhed, but there was still red cord wound around his thumbs and the magic was apparently enough to hold his hands where they were on his stomach. 

Thank heaven for small favors.

Spike was panting through his nose and making little whimpering sounds now, and Buffy looked like she wanted to join in.  Xander decided he’d had enough.

“Buffy, I have an idea,” he said.  “Reach me one of those bags out of the cooler, would you?”

When she handed it to him, Xander set the mug on the TV table while Spike thrashed and snarled at them.  He used the scissors to snip off one corner of the bag and then shoved that corner into Spike’s mouth.  He snapped once, then quieted, started… well, _suckling_ was the only word Xander could think of.  The occasional grunt or growl from deep in his throat.

Success.

“Buffy,” Xander said quietly.  “Buff?  I got this.  Why don’t you go on inside, grab a shower or something. ‘Kay?”  He looked up, craned his neck around to see her.  “Buffy?”

She was transfixed, staring at Spike as he fed.  “Buffy?”

Finally she shook herself, blinked at Xander.  “What?  I – yeah.  Okay.  I’m sorry, I just – okay.”  She disappeared into the house, still shaking.  Close enough to success.  Xander hoped she’d take a good long time in the shower.  Give herself a freakin’ break for once.

As starved as he was, Spike was still weak enough that he only made it halfway through the bag of blood before he passed out.  His vamp face faded away and his head lolled to one side as blood trickled down his cheek.  Xander rummaged through the things on his workbench until he found a clothespin to hold the bag shut, then stuck it back in the cooler.

He got to work quickly, methodically clipping the rest of the cords on Spike’s limbs and body and tossing them into the grill to burn.  Tried not to think about handling another guy’s cock, deciding that under the circumstances it didn’t count anyway.  He took extra care snipping and peeling the barbed wire away from Spike’s ankles, wincing as the skin on Spike’s feet just… slid around, probably not even really attached anymore.  Tried as best he could not to touch.

Xander slowed down when it came time to reposition Spike’s ribs and broken kneecap – and wasn’t that just a nasty thing to have to look at, much less take care of.  He shuddered, but kept up the steady pressure until everything was back where it was supposed to be.  Slapped medical tape over everything and hoped for the best.  Spike never even stirred.

He wrapped gauze around the worst of the injuries, on Spike’s wrists and ankles where the barbed wire had chewed into him.  Bit his lip for a minute, then pulled out the tape again and started strapping Spike’s wrists to the edges of the cot.  It sucked, but there was no way for Xander to be sure the stupid vampire would wake up in any better shape than he’d been when he passed out.  The last thing they needed was him going for someone’s throat when he was too far gone to realize what he was doing.  Buffy would never stake him – and if he were honest with himself, Xander wouldn’t either – but having to hold him down after he attacked would be a much bigger pain in the ass than taking care of the problem ahead of time.

A half-hour later, Xander headed inside.  Spike was still unconscious, wrapped in a blanket.  The grill was extinguished, there were tarps hung on the windows, and Xander was starving.  Hopefully Buffy would eat something too.

He stopped by the guest room and listened.  The shower was still running, and over the hiss of the water he could faintly hear the sound of Buffy weeping.

Xander rubbed at his eyepatch tiredly.  She needed it.  He was glad he’d sent her inside when he had.  He just wished there was something more he could do for her.

For them both.


	17. Hunger, Mistrust

This was it.  She was done.  Shredded, frayed little Buffy-scraps all over the bottom of the bathtub.

Yep.

Buffy couldn’t seem to make herself stop crying.  Her memory kept taking her back to London when she’d first learned of Giles’ betrayal, when she’d stuck her face in a pillow and just howled, helpless to do anything else in the face of the hurt, the anger, and the grief overwhelming her all at once.  And then for fun it would throw in images of Spike, not dead after all but more wrecked than she’d ever seen him.  On the inside she felt every bit as raw now as she had then.  On the outside, she felt like she’d gone a few rounds with an uber-vamp.  Only, you know, add in a sore throat, aching stomach, and tear-stuffed nose to the usual pummeling and head-bashing.

Tears were still rolling down Buffy’s cheeks when she climbed out of the shower, only turning off the water because she’d used up all the hot and what was left was giving her goosebumps.  She could barely see out of swollen eyes, but the clock on the counter said something like It’s Really Late Why Are You Still Up O’Clock.

And she still hadn’t eaten.

Didn’t want to go back out there.  Didn’t want to face Xander looking like this.  Didn’t want to face… oh, God. _Spike_.

It was too much.  She’d been yo-yoed around for about two weeks straight and she just couldn’t take anymore.  She’d lost one of the most important people in her life when she’d walked away from Giles, and no longer had him to lean on, to go to for advice or comfort.  Then she’d gained back another of the most important people in her life when she’d found Spike, still alive.  Undead.  Ugh – _whatever_.  But Spike was in no shape to handle anything she might inflict on him right now, to say the very, very least.

Xander had been a rock so far, but Buffy couldn’t bring herself to ask him for any more than he’d already given.  She just had to figure out how to handle this on her own.  Like, really on her own and not “on her own while surrounded by busybodies” the way she was used to.

It didn’t help that she still had that lingering Scooby-distrust thing going on, and just didn’t know how much she _could_ lean on Xander before he’d get sick of her and tell her to take a hike.  It wouldn’t be all that unreasonable of him if he did, really.  He had a life, after all.  She was still trying to rebuild hers, and in the meantime she was a walking train wreck.  She was pretty sure she was sick of herself – it only made sense that anyone around her would be tired of the weeping-damsel routine by now.

Too bad she couldn’t seem to make that part of her give up and go away.

Eventually, timidly, she poked her head out of the bathroom.  There was a lamp on in the living room, but no sign of Xander – oh, hello.  No sign of him apart from this note on her door:

 _Buffy,_  
Sorry I have an early meeting tomarow (sp?) so I need to get some sleep.  
I left some stuff out in the kitchen for you.  EAT IT.  
Also pls keep an ear out for Bleach Boy if you can.  He didn’t eat much and might wake up hungry again.  
Dont freak out but I thought it would be a good idea to restrain him just in case he vamps out again.  
Get some rest and EAT SOMETHING.  
Good night –   
Xan

Restrain?

Buffy skipped the kitchen and headed to the garage, heart pounding, and almost collapsed against the door frame when she saw that Xander had done nothing more than tape Spike’s wrists and forearms to the frame of the camp cot.  She just hoped he’d thought to put some gauze over all that bare skin first.  When Spike woke up, assuming he was coherent, he’d be annoyed, but if he was still out of it, at least this way he wouldn’t hurt them and didn’t seem likely to hurt himself either.

As if in response to her thoughts, Spike stirred, his head twitching fretfully.  Buffy snagged a bag of blood from the cooler and tiptoed back to the kitchen to warm it up.  By the time she made it back to the garage, Spike was awake, game face on and growling weakly as he tried to work his arms free of the tape.

“Spike?” she called softly.

He froze.  As she approached, she saw his nostrils flare and his head jerk toward her.  He bared his fangs and began to snarl.  Carefully, she brought the bag of blood within reach, doing what she could to keep out of his range herself.

He wasn’t strong enough to lift his head, although he tried.  Buffy’s lip trembled as he snapped feebly at the bottom edge of the bag.  At least his fangs were able to pierce the plastic, she thought, even if they probably still couldn’t break through actual skin.

He sputtered and choked a little on the first swallow of blood – too much, too fast, she figured.  She pinched off the flow to let him catch up; then, when the first swallow went down, she decided to let him catch his breath before loosening her grip on the bag.  Bad idea.  Spike tried to lunge at her again when the blood didn’t flow, a bestial whimper rumbling deep in his throat.

He was so hungry it made her heart hurt just to look at him.

Eventually they established a rhythm – he would take a mouthful of blood, and she would pause the flow so he could swallow without choking on it, releasing as soon as his jaw loosened again.  It seemed like maybe his mind wasn’t completely gone, or else his demon was a quick study, because it wasn’t too long before he quieted and learned to trust that the blood would keep coming. His clouded gold eyes drifted half-shut, focused on nothing, and he started making contented little noises as he drank.

It was one of the most sensual things she’d ever seen him do.  There was an intimacy to feeding him like this that Buffy hadn’t expected, even having done it once before, when he was recovering from the First’s influence on his mind.  Buffy bit her lip.  Yeah, she could probably find this erotic if she let herself, even with the horrible state he was in right now.

The way his lips closed around the bottom of the bag.  The way his tongue worked the plump curves filling his mouth as he suckled.  The way his Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed.  Buffy looked away suddenly with a gulp of her own.

Spike grumbled at her – she’d fallen out of rhythm and he was waiting for more to eat.  Buffy rolled her eyes at her own idiocy and got back to work.

He finished the bag, barely, brow ridges fading as his eyes fell shut.  He relaxed into sleep, a smear of blood at one corner of his mouth, and she wiped it away with her thumb.  Stroked his cheek again with the back of her fingers, carefully, but he didn’t stir.  He’d stopped breathing, which she knew from experience meant he was deep under.  She just sat and watched him for several minutes, memorizing the new shape of his face, relearning the sight of him, drinking him in after over a year apart.

Finally she realized she was hungry too, and went back inside to take care of her own appetite.

* * *

 

Hungry.

Starved, starving, famished, ravenous.  Needed to feed, needed…

Spike’s eyes opened.

He didn’t know where he was.  The place didn’t smell like Figg’s shed, like rotten vegetation and potting soil and damp concrete.  Like old sheep.  No, this place had a smell of wood shavings and sawdust, car exhaust, and maybe a little bit of cement mix, if he had to guess.  His eyes were still not quite right, even in game face; all he could tell was that it was dark, and that there was a light somewhere behind his head.  Painfully he craned his neck, trying to see.  Was reminded forcibly of his cracked skull.

He remembered that the spell holding him was broken.  The cords were cut off, some point recently, if he remembered right… he tested that.  Bent one knee, a little – still too weak to really move much, damn.  Moved the other leg, carefully, carefully. Yeah, right then, knee still messed up, but it felt like someone had tried to mend it a bit for him… Spike tried to bring his hands up, feel his head, move the blanket he could feel scratching his delicate bits.

His arms wouldn’t budge.

Teeth bared, he pulled harder, trying to move.  Felt his muscles tense, felt his fingers clench into fists, but something was holding his wrists in place.  Immoveable, implacable, irresistible.

Sod that.  He’d bloody well resist if he felt like it. 

Spike snarled, writhed his shoulders, twisted his wrists as best he could, which wasn’t much.  The effort made his ribs ache, but he didn’t care.  He was _hungry_ and he needed to _feed_ and he needed it _now_ , and there was no one around like there’d been before so he’d bloody well get It himself… get up off this mat or whatever it was and sink his fangs into the first body he found, human or not –

 – All right, no he probably wouldn’t.  He smelled blood and plastic nearby, probably a stash of bags… he was pretty sure that’s what he’d been fed earlier.  Grab one of those, then, or two or three, glut himself till the pangs in his stomach went away and he could… he could…

Spike blinked, eyes heavy.  Sodding hell… the struggle to get loose… exhausted him that badly?

He gave one last feeble tug at his bonds and felt his game face fading back to human.  He was still hungry.  Starving, famished, ravenous.  Needed to… needed someone to help, damn it all…

Spike’s eyes drifted shut against his will.  Couldn’t sleep yet.  Needed someone to come and… and feed him… hungry… sodding useless…

He slept.

* * *

 

His hands hurt.  Christ, his hands felt like someone had tried to strip the skin off them with a knife – something else he shouldn’t have been familiar with but was, thank you Angelus, sodding bastard that you used to be.  His feet were no better, and the sigils cut into his body still burned.

Also he had broken bones refusing to get better and was half out of his head with hunger, but la-di-da, he could breathe, and move a little, so everything was just sodding fine, wasn’t it?

Footsteps, near his head.  Noises that he supposed were meant to be speech, watery and far off.  Spike waited with his eyes shut, suppressed a growl of anticipation.  Couldn’t help but twitch his hands, itching to grab something by the throat and pull it to his waiting mouth.

Smelled warm blood.  Pig swill.  He wanted better.

Couldn’t wait any longer.  Spike opened his eyes, rumbling low in his chest at the shapes moving around him. One got too close.  He managed to snap the tape on his left arm and jerked it free. 

Lunged and snapped and _missed_ , sod it all, bleeding hell…

Blood.  In his mouth.  Pig swill, but it was warm and it was in his mouth.  It would do, for now.  His arm… he tried to reach up and hold on, to the bag, to the person feeding him, whatever… but his hand hurt so he let it drop limply back onto his stomach.

Fed.

Grew drowsy.

As he was drifting off, Spike thought he smelled someone familiar.  Tried to place them…

Slept.

* * *

 

Buffy woke up twice during the night to check on Spike.  Both times it must have been her Slayer instincts that had nudged her into alertness, because both times Spike was snarling and struggling against his restraints.  Still out of his mind with hunger.  Was it because she’d been out of sequence when she’d taken the red cord off his tongue?  Or was it just because he had been hit so hard, almost completely used up by the spell and whoever had put it on him?

She had a hard time thinking it really could have been Figg, despite everything she’d seen at the greenhouse.   Somebody’s favorite grandpa and she’d had to kill him.  Wished there could have been another way, any other way, to handle the situation.

The rest of the day passed quietly.  Xander was at work and Spike slept in between feedings.  Sitting with him in the silent garage, Buffy wondered idly if this was what it was like to have a baby – he did nothing but sleep and eat, and she did nothing but watch him, memorize his features, care for him and worry and willingly suffer the lack of sleep for his sake.  Bit of a close call with him around noon when the ends of the tape holding him came unstuck from the metal frame of the cot.  Looked like Xander hadn’t been as thorough on that side, having to reach across him and all.

After that feeding she realized they were almost out of blood for him and went back inside, rummaging for a phone book so she could call a butcher shop and have them deliver more.  At least with all the feeding he didn’t look quite as bad anymore.  Still too thin, but no longer quite in the concentration-camp-inmate category.

Xander’s answering machine light was blinking.  With her order placed, and a quick look showing Spike still sound asleep, Buffy picked up a pen and paper and decided to jot his messages down for him.

_“Hey Xan, it’s Dawn again, Buffy still isn’t answering my emails and I was wondering if you could tell me what she’s been up to.  Giles still won’t tell me why she left and I’m starting to worry.  Call me, okay?”_

Slowly, she sat down on a kitchen stool, her shoulders tense.

The next two messages sounded like they were work-related, something to do with contracts and sealed bids.  Buffy had just started to relax when:

_“Xander?  Hi, Xander, it’s Willow.  Could you give me a call, or, you know, maybe send me an email or something?  It’s about Buffy.  I heard she was maybe staying with you for awhile?  I need to talk to you about something.  Ooh – okay sweetie!  Okay, gotta go.  Send me an email, okay?  Okay, um, bye.”_

_“Hello, Mr. Harris, this is Andrew speaking.  Buffy remains incommunicado so I am turning to you once again for your aid.  I’m back in Rome, you should have the number, but just in case…”_

Buffy pushed the button on the answering machine.  Started rubbing at the tension in the back of her neck.


	18. Struggle, Confrontations

Why couldn’t people leave her alone?

Buffy wanted to start a new life here and needed space, just a little personal privacy, while she found her feet.  Was that so hard to understand?

All right, granted, they were calling Xander and not her, but Buffy was dead certain that if she were to plug in her laptop, turn her cell back on, she’d be swamped with texts and voicemails and emails, every last one of them pestering her about something.  Where are you, Buffy.  What are you doing, Buffy.  Why haven’t you called, Buffy.  Pay attention to us, Buffy.

Our needs are more important than yours, Buffy.

And what was Xander doing, fielding so many calls?  Had he been running interference for her, or checking in behind her back?

Buffy didn’t know, and she really, really didn’t need the added stress right now.  Worrying over Spike was bad enough; all this added tension from those stupid phone messages was giving her a headache.  She hadn’t left the garage all day and her legs were sore from sitting in the little camp chair Xander had set up for her.  Thing wasn’t meant to be sat in all day… or maybe it wasn’t meant to be sat in by someone who was as worked up as she was. 

She peeked back in to check on Spike.  Good – he was still asleep from the last feeding.  She had time to get a shower, try and relax for a minute.  See if that would help her head.

And then Xander would be home, and it would be time to have a little chat.

* * *

 

Hunger woke Spike from a nightmare where he found himself trying to explain something to both Illyria and Figg, something he couldn’t remember on waking.  It had seemed important in his dream, something they both needed to hear, but now… he swallowed convulsively, mouth flooding with saliva at the faint scent of blood in plastic.

He opened his eyes, and to his surprise could mostly make out his surroundings.  A little blurry around the edges, but his eyes were nearly back to normal again, it seemed.

He was lying on a camp cot, a blanket draped across him, his hands sticking out from under it on either side.  Ordinary leather belts were wrapped around each wrist, black on one side and brown on the other, strapping his arms to the cot frame.  He tugged, tentatively at first, then harder.  There was just enough give that, if he took his time, he should eventually be able to work his way free; if nothing else he should be able to wiggle the belt around until he could reach the buckle, and get loose that way.

Looking around, he saw faint light leaking out from behind tarps covering the windows, and a lamp somewhere behind his head cast long shadows over an empty concrete floor.  Oil stains and tire marks there… and yeah, the large overhead-type door was pretty difficult to miss.

Someone’s garage, then.

Spike swallowed again, fighting to keep his head instead of giving in to his hunger.  He couldn’t remember feeling this famished since the first weeks after being chipped by the Initiative… no.  It was worse than that – it was the hunger of a newly-fledged vampire, still sloppy with his kills and craving blood almost constantly.  He’d been lucky to have Dru, and even Angelus and Darla, to assist him through that first stage of his new existence.

Who did he have now?  Someone had certainly been feeding him.  Someone had released him, mostly, from the binding spell Figg had placed.  But where were they now, and what did they want with him?

Spike inhaled, searching for scents in the air.  Either that sense was dulled as well, or the motor oil and sawdust were masking the odor of whoever had come and gone recently.  There were notes, something familiar in the air, but he couldn’t place it.

Remembered feather-light touches across his cheek and brow.  Remembered thinking that Buffy had come for him, after all.

But would she keep him in a place like this?  Did she live here?  Shouldn’t he be able to smell her in the air, on his skin?

Gritting his teeth, Spike twisted his wrists and pulled.  The backs of his hands officially hated this plan; he could see the skin there, loose and peeling.  Bloody hell, it looked like he was wearing gloves.  How had that been done?

Craning his neck, Spike could see a red cooler sitting not a foot away from him, likely full of blood.  His mouth flooded, and he swallowed again.  If he got free, he might be able to reach that.  Take his fill.

Wincing, he began to struggle in earnest.

* * *

 

Xander was home, keys jangling as he walked in the front door.  “Hey, Buff,” he said.  Yawned.  “How’d it go with you guys today?”

Buffy narrowed her eyes, leaned against the kitchen’s bar-slash-entryway.  “Oh, you know,” she replied, “some good, some bad.  Kinda trying to decide which is which, though.”

“Howzat?” Toeing his shoes off in the entryway.  He seemed totally casual – too casual? She wasn’t sure.

“Well, on the one side, Spike is getting strong enough that he pulled the tape loose on one side of the cot,” she said.  “Which reminds me, the butcher shop should be delivering some blood any time now.  What with the eating every couple of hours and all, we were running out, but he’s a lot less skinny, which is definitely of the good.  Oh, and because of the not-so-skinny, the tape on his other arm was starting to look too tight, so I grabbed a couple of belts out of your closet to use instead.  I hope that’s okay.”

Xander dropped the mail on the countertop.  Tossed a grin her way.  “As long as you didn’t find the pink fuzzy handcuffs, we’re good.”

“Okay, ew,” said Buff.  “And thank you _so_ much for that mental image.”

“Anytime,” he said, still smiling.  “What was the other thing?”

Buffy paused, pursed her lips for a second.  “I had a free minute, so I took your phone messages for you.”

Xander looked at her, waiting.  Shrugged.  “Okay, and…?”

She shoved the notepad across the counter at him.  “Two sounded work related,” she said.  “Then there was one from Dawn, one from Willow, and one from Andrew.”  She folded her arms and leaned back against the kitchen counter.  “Want to tell me what that’s about?”

“Sure,” he said, “just let me take a look.”  Poked the button on his answering machine.  Buffy kept silent while he listened to the messages.

Xander shrugged and moved through into the kitchen.  “Hmm.  Well, Dawn phoned the day you left England and asked me to let her know when you got in safely; I did that already.”  He started rummaging through the fridge.  “But you haven’t been in touch, so…”  He stood up, a head of lettuce in one hand.  “She’s probably just worried about you.”

“And the others?”  Couldn’t seem to stop her voice from turning cold.  “Care to tell me what everyone is saying behind my back?”

Xander froze, turned to look at her.  He seemed honestly confused.  “Geez, Buff.  Paranoid much?”  Okay, and maybe also a little annoyed.  “I mean, I’ve got no idea what Andrew is looking for, for one thing.”

“And as for Willow?” she prompted.

“As for Willow,” he said, “that’s probably just the latest chapter in a conversation we’ve been having for a while now.”  He made a face, considering.  “Although yeah, you do come up in that conversation kind of a lot.”

Buffy shut her eyes and sighed.  Of course she did.

“Look,” she said, “you know why I left England, right?  I’m done with Giles thinking he can manipulate me by keeping secrets from me.  But I’m also pretty much over it coming from anybody else, too.”  She looked away from him for a second.  Pushed herself away from the counter and started getting out plates and bowls.  “I’m just… really touchy about the idea people might be trying to run my life – _again_ – without me being part of the process.  You know?”

Xander nodded.  “Of course I do,” he said, “and I know that’s probably why you haven’t been talking to anyone since you got here.  I mean, you did tell me you’re trying to start over here, right?  I kinda figured you wanted to make a few decisions without any interference from the rest of us, for a change.” 

Buffy smiled.  Felt a little foolish for doubting Xander in the first place.

“I can tell you this much,” he went on as he turned to the sink, “Dawn really is just worried about you.  She has called before, a couple times, but only because she’s checking to make sure you’re okay.  I mean, come on.  You usually live with a cell phone permanently attached to your ear, and now instead of hearing from you every half-hour, she’s been gettin’ nada for the past two weeks.”

He started scrubbing at the lettuce and peeling off leaves, setting them into a big bowl on the counter.  Buffy started pulling other salad ingredients out of the fridge.  “Andrew said he needed your assistance again,” she said.

“Eh,” shrugged Xander, “he called while he was making travel arrangements for you.  I haven’t heard from him since then.  I told you, I don’t know what he could want.”  He chewed his lip for a minute, turned off the water.  “Look, Buffy.  We talked once about how the Scoobies had this problem, remember?  Where we love each other but we don’t trust each other?”  He looked at her for a long moment, saying nothing.

Buffy had the decency to feel embarrassed.  “So,” she said after a second, all fake-perky, “can I still ask about Willow, or does that just make me a hypocrite?”

Xander smiled, but turned it into a sigh.  “Let’s just say that, for a crazy-powerful witch, she can be really insecure.  Also she does a really great impression of your stereotypical Jewish busybody.  But that part, at least, isn’t completely her fault.”

“What do you mean?” Juggling veggies and trying not to get paranoid again.

“Well, she hasn’t said anything specific,” he said, “and I could _totally_ be wrong here, but I get the impression she knew some of what Giles and Andrew knew, this past year.”

“Son of a _bitch_ … oh, yuck!”  Buffy had clenched her fists without thinking.  Now a tomato was dying a horrible gory death in her hand.  “Ew.  Towel, towel!  And I should have known she’d… I can’t believe it, except I can, you know? I just – gah.”  Threw the remains in the garbage.  “Why do people who call themselves my friends still have to –”

“Actually, that’s the part I think isn’t her fault,” Xander said quietly.

Buffy wiped sticky tomato guts off her hands.  Took a deep breath and blew it out.  “I’m listening,” she said.

“Okay, well, I don’t have all the information, here,” said Xander, “but… she’s tying herself in knots over something, Buffy.  Reading between the lines?  I get the feeling she knew at least a little bit about the whole Spike situation.  But I think maybe she wasn’t sure how much _you_ knew, which meant she wasn’t sure how much she could say.”  He rubbed at his eyepatch.  “ _And_ you haven’t been talking to anyone, yourself… hence, nosy-Nellie – trying to find out, from me, about you.”

“If she wanted to find out whether I knew anything about Spike, why wouldn’t she be able to just ask me?” Buffy threw her hands in the air.

“Beats me.  Maybe she thought you were moving on, and if you didn’t know Spike was still around, bringing him up would just mess you up all over again,” he said.

“So?” growled Buffy.  “I mean, okay, yes, it probably would have messed me up – as witness the whole Giles thing – but still, moving on or not moving on – wouldn’t that be my decision to make?  Just for a wacky change of pace, couldn’t I be allowed to have all the information, where my personal life is concerned?”

Xander took a breath.  “Yes, if that’s what this is really about.  But hey, maybe she doesn’t know anything about Spike and is just worried about you, same as Dawn.  Maybe she just misses you, what with the traveling and the disappearing into coven stuff and not getting to see you as often as she likes.  Or maybe there’s an apocalypse coming and she needs me to start boarding up everybody’s windows.”

Buffy stopped and considered, looking out the kitchen window.  “Or – maybe she did know something about Spike,” she said slowly, “and Giles is putting pressure on her to keep her mouth shut about it.  Maybe she wants to talk to me and isn’t sure how much she’s _allowed_ to say.”

“I don’t see how he could stop her,” said Xander.  “Goddess-level witch, there, right?”

Buffy sighed.  “Crap.  There goes that theory.”

“Anyway,” Xander shrugged, “something has her all tied up in knots, and she won’t be specific about it whenever she calls, apart from getting all angsty about not talking to you as much as she thinks she should.  Honest, Buffster, I got nothing.  Me, I’m just reaching for theories and chopping vegetables.”  He placed a handful of radishes onto the cutting board, waved his knife in the air.  “If you want to play conspiracy, though, maybe Giles made her _believe_ there was some reason not to talk to you about the… whatever-it-is.”

“That would be just like him, wouldn’t it. Son of a bitch,” she muttered again.

“Seems plausible, anyway,” he said.  Shrugged, started chopping radishes.  “So yeah,” he went on, “she’s called a few times in the past month or so.  But she’s never said anything to me about Spike – I will reiterate this could have nothing to do with him, I’m only throwing it out there because you’re kinda attached to the idea.  But I’m pretty sure she feels guilty as hell over keeping _something_ from you.  If you’re right, and if I had to guess… I’d say she’s trying to find out how much you already know about the something, how much she can get away with telling you, and whether or not she has to worry about – I dunno – Giles cutting her off from all the nifty spell books or something like that.” 

He stopped, pointed his knife at her.  “Which I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t actually do, since he needs her to do a lot of the hunting down Lost Tomes O’ Wisdom for the new Council, but if Giles _is_ pressuring her, Willow wouldn’t be interested in taking that kind of risk.”

Buffy thought about it for a second.  “I think I see your point,” she said.  “And maybe you’re right, maybe it is nothing.  It still sucks though.”  A little bitter inside.  “For both of us.”

“Buffy?”

“’Cause whatever it is, it’s obviously bothering her, and ‘cause anything that bothers you guys automatically has to bother me too, whether or not it’s really necessary, or even relevant to my life,” she said.  “And if _you’re_ right, then it probably isn’t relevant, but she has to involve me anyway.”

Xander sighed.  “And again with that whole phase we were hoping we’d outgrown…”

“Okay, fine, maybe I’m just being paranoid,” said Buffy tiredly.  “But Willow could have talked to me before now about whatever is bugging her.  She should have.  If nothing else I’d have kept it from Giles that _I_ knew anything, if it turned out to be that big a deal.”  Buffy scowled.  She threw radish slices into the salad bowl, took the cucumber away from Xander, and took a turn at the cutting board.  Perhaps with a little excessive force.  “She should have trusted me.”

“Yeah, careful there, pot, your kettle is showing,” he replied.  “Why is it you haven’t been in touch with everyone, again?  And, how is she supposed to talk to you when you’ve been off the grid the whole time you’ve been here?”

Buffy sighed. 

There was a crash from the garage.

* * *

 

Spike’s cot was overturned on the floor, with him under it, apparently unconscious.  He’d gotten one hand free of the restraints, again – it was stretched out toward the cooler where they were keeping his supply of blood.  The cooler itself had tipped over, too, and bags of blood were spilled across the floor of the garage.  It was pure luck that none of them had burst.

“Oh, God,” said Buffy.  “Spike?  Spike, can you hear me?”  She bit her lip, looked at Xander.  “I’m not sure you should get too close while he’s.  You know.  Loose.”

“I’ll be fine, Buff,” said Xander.  “At least let me get the cooler picked up.  You can handle Spike on your own if it makes you feel better.”

“Vampire, Xan,” she said wearily.  “I’m trying to keep you both from getting hurt.”  She flipped the cot right-side-up, and discovered that, no, in fact Spike had gotten both his hands free from the belts.  He lay in a crumpled heap, not quite on his stomach, not quite on his side, one arm stretched out away from him toward the cooler, the other curled up under his chest.  His broken bones were all underneath him, damn it, and blood oozed from a scrape on his forehead.  “And apparently failing miserably,” she added bitterly.

Carefully, she turned Spike over onto his back.  “Spike?”  He didn’t answer her, at first.

Then he frowned, eyes still closed, and moaned softly.

“Spike?” she called again.  “Hey, Spike.  You gotta wake up, Spike.  Talk to me.”

He jerked his head away from her with a little grunt.  Sleepy, not all there yet.  “Nnn,” he said.  Winced.  One hand dragged up toward his head.

“Spike?”

“Figg,” he muttered.  “Figg?  They’re dead, Figg… they’re all dead, you’re meant to be… meant to be too.”

Buffy looked up at Xander, eyes wide.

“Illyria,” he sighed sleepily.  “Illyria – ‘Lyria, where are you – where you going… ‘s just us, ‘Lyria, you can’t – where are you going… didn’t make it… why’d I… didn’t, they’re all dead… just us… you can’t… don’t go, you’re just… leave me here?”

Tears rolled down her cheeks, listening to him.  His voice, even dazed and half-conscious, carried so much pain.

“You – Figg, don’t,” said Spike.  “Won’t work, Figg – won’t bring ‘em back… you can’t… all gone… leave me… leave me here… Figg… Angel – Angel’s gone… ‘Lyria… Buffy?”

She clenched her fists for a second, willed herself to stay calm.  “I’m here,” she whispered, but he didn’t answer.  Tore her fingers through her hair, then stood up and began to back away from him.  “Buffy?” called Xander softly, but she wasn’t listening.  Fixated on the vampire muttering on the floor.

“Need to… Buffy – go to her… needs you… Buff – Buffy… needs… Figg? Figg, they’re dead… all dead… ‘Lyria.  Why’d I make it… why’d… get out – get out, let me… let me out…”

She was at the door in two steps, shaking from head to toe.  Xander grabbed her arm.  “Where – what are you doing, Buffy?”

“I just – I need to – first aid,” she gasped, “I need to get the first aid kit.  I’ll – just give me…”

Spike continued to mumble nonsense on the floor.  Buffy jerked her arm free of Xander’s grasp…

“Buffy!”

But she was already gone.


	19. Confusion, Conversation

“Damn it.” Xander tugged at his hair with both hands for a second.  “Can’t leave me alone with the vampire who might hurt me, but he starts mumbling gibberish and suddenly she has to take off.”

Spike was still muttering to himself, half-asleep at best, but he didn’t look like he was on the edge of vamping out anytime soon.  “How am I supposed to get you back on your cot by myself,” Xander said to him.

“I don’t… don’t unnerstand,” Spike slurred.  “How did I… all dead… how did I…”

“What, make it?” Xander asked.  Playing along.  Maybe it would distract Spike while he did painful things to him, dragging his ass back where he belonged.  “You have unholy luck, that’s how.”

Xander slid the cot under Spike’s left side, where nothing was broken as far as they knew.  It would be Spike’s right side that would be difficult.  Not to mention getting the cot’s legs snapped back into position, tipping Spike all over the place and threatening to dump him on the floor again.  “Whether it’s unholy good luck or unholy bad luck,” he went on, “is anyone’s guess.”

Spike winced again, shifted uncomfortably.  He flexed his fingers carefully, dragged one hand up across his face.  They were a mess from pulling out of the belts Buffy had put on him; dead white skin was peeling off the backs, and the palms hung loosely, like old gloves that had finally shredded from overuse.  It would have been hideous, except Xander could see that Spike had already started to grow new skin underneath the old, fragile and pale.  Pink with the blood he’d been guzzling in the past twenty-four hours.  His hands almost certainly were more than a little tender – but they probably weren’t hurting him as badly as they could have. 

“Hey,” said Xander.  “You with us yet?”

Spike’s eyes opened.  Blue, which they hadn’t seen in awhile, what with the game face and the frenzied lunging for food and all.  His hand froze in mid-air, elbow propped near his head so Xander could see the sigils along his arm.  Blinked, looked around in confusion… focused on Xander.

“Hi,” Xander said.

Spike blinked again, squinted.  Swallowed once, then said, “I know you…” Voice quiet, burred, like a saw cutting through balsa wood.

“Yep,” said Xander, “’fraid so.”  Shifted his weight, watched as Spike’s eyes sharpened.  From sleep-addled to predator, just like that.  Xander remembered how hungry the vampire had been so far.

No sudden movements. He could do that.

Spike’s nostrils flared once, catching scent, and he swallowed again.  “Harris.”

“Yeah,” said Xander.  Holding very, very still.  Don’t, _do not_ say “in the flesh” unless you want him thinking about _you_ like that… “Welcome back to the land of the conscious.”

Spike’s brow furrowed.  “What?”  His eyes closed for a second.  He brought his hand down to rest across his chest, fingers curled around his collarbone.  “My hearing’s… not the best right now,” he murmured.  And Xander knew it cost him to admit that.  Knew it took trust.

“I said, ‘welcome back’”, Xander repeated slowly.  “You’ve been pretty out of it since we found you.”

Spike considered.  “The restraints?” he asked. “That was you?”

Xander nodded once.  “We… kinda had to,” he said.  “You were – let’s say you were really, really hungry and maybe not thinking too clearly.”  He shifted his weight again, watched as Spike just looked at him – not so predatory now that he was finally coming around – and shivered a little.  “You, uh… doing any better now?  I mean, you’re probably still pretty hungry, right?”

Spike’s eyes flashed yellow and he closed them again for a second.  Took a deep breath, swallowed some more.  “A bit, yeah,” he said softly.  His eyes were blue again when he opened them, but Xander got the impression he was just barely keeping control of himself.

He stood up slowly, carefully.  No sudden moves.  “I’ll bring you something,” he offered, “or do you want to get situated first?”

More confusion.  Spike turned his head slowly, with a sharp intake of breath and a little grimace, taking in the cot, the cooler with its scattered bags of blood, him lying naked and half-sprawled on the concrete floor.  Blanket rumpled up under his legs.  Xander could see him struggling to remember what had happened.  “You didn’t want to wait on us to feed you, this time around,” he said.

“Ah,” was Spike’s only answer for a long moment.  Then, “Yeah,” and he started trying to push himself up onto his elbows.  Muscles trembled with the effort.  A tiger’s low rumble began to vibrate in his chest.

“Here,” said Xander, stepping forward and cautiously dropping down behind Spike’s head.  Hopefully it would be harder for him to bite that way, if he lost control after all.  “Lean on me.”

Between the two of them, they managed to slide Spike back onto the cot – skipped folding the legs back out – and pulled the blanket up to cover him.  Not that he had a whole lot of dignity left to protect at this point, given some of the places Xander’s hands had gone in order to release his bindings, but still.  There was a whole lot of naked going on that Xander was perfectly happy to get back under wraps, as it were.

“Us,” said Spike, after he’d gotten settled and the worst of the pain subsided.  Xander made a note to bring home a knee brace for him tomorrow.  “You said ‘us’.”

“Me and Buffy,” said Xander.  Waited for that to sink in.

“Buffy.  She’s here?”

“She’s staying here, yeah,” said Xander.  “You’re at my house, by the way.  And she was just here a second ago but… she’s been a little wiggy lately.  She needed to step out for a second.”

“She’ll be back?” Spike asked, and Xander’s heart twisted at the longing he heard.  The same longing he still felt for Anya some nights.  “You’re sure?”

A noise from the doorway behind him.

“Yeah,” said Buffy.  “I’m here.”

* * *

 

“Hey,” she said, kneeling down next to him, setting the first aid kit to one side.  She caught Xander out of the corner of her eye, gathering up the cooler and blood bags, heading inside.

“Buffy,” he breathed.

She drank him in with her eyes.  He looked so different once he was… well, animate.  Still too thin, but no worse now, finally, than he’d been after the Initiative had gotten him.  His hair was all askew, curling and tufted and pointing every which way.  His eyes were blue again, the cloudiness all but gone, but still hollow and shadowed in the sockets.  His cheekbones no longer reminded her of cut glass; the hollow spaces at his temples were filling in.  He was pale, his lips still as white as the rest of his face, but he was breathing, and he looked at her like… like he couldn’t quite believe she was real, maybe?

Buffy didn’t care how he looked at her.  Just the fact that he could see her, could recognize who she was, and didn’t seem to want her gone was enough.

Before this, asleep, he broke her heart; now, awake, he filled it.

There were so many things she wanted to say in that moment.  _I’ve missed you_ , or _Where have you been_ , or even just _Why_ , but instead she went with, “How do you feel?”

Spike swallowed, and she saw him suppress a shiver.  “Been worse, I suppose,” he said.  “Been better, though.”

“Yeah,” she said.  Reached up to touch his hair.  Still a little gray with dry, powdered filth from the inside of that cistern.  He closed his eyes, flared his nostrils as her wrist moved across his face.  “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough I feel cold,” Spike muttered, eyes still closed.  Voice still raspy, deeper than usual, blurred by exhaustion.

“What? I don’t get it,” Buffy frowned.  “You’re room temperature – I thought cold didn’t bother vamps.”

“Doesn’t, usually,” he said.  Swallowed, opened his eyes partway.  “Have to be...” he shifted, winced.  “Have to be pretty bad off first.”

“Tell me,” she said.

“Ribs,” he said, “knee… but you know about those, I gather.” He moved his hand down across his torso.  “The tape’s good, ‘s helping.  Cracked m’ noggin, I think.  And my senses are all a bit wonky – dulled, like.  Blurry vision, sounds aren’t as clear, like that.  I couldn’t… couldn’t pick up your scent, earlier.”

“Blood will heal those, right?” she asked.

At the mention of blood, Spike trembled again, his eyes glinting gold in the lamplight for a second.  He closed them, took a slow breath as best he could.  She watched as he swallowed, hard.

“Should, yeah,” said Spike.  “Already started to help.  Be right as rain in a few days.  A week at most.”  He looked up at her.  “Best be careful mentionin’ dinner right now, though.  Harris said… he says I wasn’t in control earlier, ‘s that right?”

“Yeah,” said Buffy.  Chose not to mention that he would’ve managed to bite her if he hadn’t been too weak to break the skin at the time.  “Yeah, you… weren’t really conscious, I don’t think.  You never really said anything, just… vamped out on us.”

Spike pulled the blanket higher, tucked it under his chin.  “Yeah, well – it’s hard enough right now to keep it under control.  Feel like a fledgling, all over again.”  He paused, swallowed, and she heard a faint, bestial whine in the back of his throat.  “Craving it pretty badly just now.  You might want… might want to back off a bit,” he said.

“No,” said Buffy.  “I’m – I don’t want to leave you, right now.”  She ran her fingers through his hair, and he shivered again.  “You’re not at full strength yet,” she said.  “If you lose it, I can handle you.”

Spike closed his eyes, smiled tiredly.

“What?” she asked.

“The innuendo I’m… in no shape to make, love,” he said.  Buffy couldn’t help but shiver too.  The way he looked at her, like she was still his world.  That he would still call her “love”, after everything she’d done to him, after being apart for a year, after…

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. 

“How’s that, then?” he asked.  Another series of tremors ran down his frame.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to you sooner,” she said.  “You’re – you’re so…” Looked away from him.  Couldn’t meet his eyes.  Too intense, too much for her right now. 

Spike saw too deeply.  Always had.

“I’m sorry for – I’m sorry for leaving you behind, in Sunnydale,” she said, voice small.  “I’m sorry for – for a lot, I guess.”  _Sorry I broke you.  Sorry I ever made you feel so low, so unworthy.  Sorry you couldn’t believe it when I said I loved you_ , she wanted to say.  Couldn’t seem to find the courage for it.

“No, love,” he breathed again.  “Nothin’… to be sorry for…” his eyes were drifting shut.  “Not your fault.”  He shuddered, and she saw his brow ridges start to come forward.  Clenched his teeth, forced them back.  “You really should –”

“I’m not leaving you,” said Buffy.

“Making it harder,” he said.  Looked up at her with exhausted, pained eyes.

“I need to keep Xander safe from you,” she said.  Half-smiling, knowing he’d see right through her.

She saw his amusement, even though he was too worn to really smile at her.  “My part… I can’t quite believe… you’re real.”  His eyes widened for just a moment.  “You are real, aren’t you?”

“I know the feeling,” said Buffy, “and yeah.”  She ran fingers down the line of his cheek, reveled in the way he leaned into her touch.  “I’m here.  I’m here, and so are you.”

* * *

 

There was a tap at the kitchen doorway.

“Buffy, Spike?” asked Xander, still out of sight inside the house.  “Are you okay for me to come in?”  Oh, right.  Xander would know to be careful around a hungry vampire.

Spike whined again, unable to help himself.  Brow ridges came forward, and he swallowed hard, two, three times. “Buffy…”

“Just a second, Xan,” said Buffy softly.  She shifted herself to sit behind Spike’s head, and helped him up to lean against her.  “Put your hands behind your back,” she told Spike.  Hooked her arms into his elbows and pulled his shoulders back, firm but mindful of his ribs.  “Just in case.”  Spike nodded his understanding.  So weary, his every movement, the way he held himself, all spoke of near-total exhaustion.  Buffy couldn’t imagine he’d be capable of putting up much of a fight, really… but still.  Better safe, and all that stuff.

Once they were ready, Xander came through the doorway holding a mug in one hand and a large thermos in the other.  Spike immediately snarled and tried to lunge, but Buffy’s grip was sure and he jerked back against her with a yelp.  “Sorry, sorry,” he panted, “I can’t,” his good leg kicked out and he tried to dive for Xander again, “can’t stop it… you need –”

Xander shoved the mug under his nose, crouched as far away from Spike as he could and still reach him.  Tipped it and watched as Spike drained it in seconds.  Refilled it from the thermos as Spike licked his lips and rumbled, deep in his chest.  The muscles in his arms bunched, trying to bring his hands forward.  Buffy tightened her grip.

After the third mug, Spike started to relax.

After the fourth, he shifted out of game face.  “Yeah,” he said, “better… ‘s better now… I can… you can let go now, Buffy.”  She started to loosen her grip, and when he made no move to reach for Xander, she let go.  “Just… hand me the rest in the bottle. Be faster.”

“Watch out for your hands,” warned Xander.

“Don’t bloody care,” said Spike.  He took the bottle from Xander, tipped his head in thanks, and held it gingerly as he drank.

When it was empty, he tipped his head again, a bit sloppy with the motion this time.  “Yeah… thanks, Harris.  Sleep now.”  He was nodding where he sat, and Buffy realized this was the longest he’d been conscious since they’d found him.

“Glad it helped,” said Xander.

“Right,” said Spike.  Visibly fading.  “Getting the spell off’ll… help more, yeah?”

Buffy blinked.  “What do you mean?” she asked.  “Spike?  We took everything off – what did we – did we get the order wrong?”

“No, love,” he said.  Nodded again, eyes sliding shut.  “Y’ did fine.  These soddin’ marks… still burning… need to… need to cross them out…”

Buffy and Xander looked at each other over his head.  “Later,” said Xander.

“Yeah,” mumbled Spike.  “Later…”

And then he was asleep, his breath slowing, then stopping altogether as he went under.

They got Spike laid back down and the cot back up on its legs, knowing he wouldn’t feel the motion when he was this deeply asleep.  Buffy pulled the blanket over him and tucked the edges in; as a precaution they buckled the belts around his forearms again, a bit tighter this time.  Buffy ran her fingers through his hair one last time before she and Xander went back inside.

“Okay,” said Buffy, “what the hell was he talking about just now?”


	20. Companionship, Solitude

_“Okay,” said Buffy, “what the hell was he talking about just now?”_

“I got nothin’,” said Xander tiredly.  “You’re the one with the funky dreams about how to get the spell off of Spike.”

“I did everything – I swear, I did everything that Drusilla – well, dream-Drusilla – said to do,” said Buffy.  She was pacing again, dragging her hands through her hair fretfully.  “Take the chain, break the bone, white, then black, then red.  We did all that.”  She froze, looked at Xander.  “I bet it’s because I did his mouth after his arms instead of before.”

“We can’t know that,” said Xander, shaking his head.  “I know you won’t want to hear this, but…”

“Time to call in the experts?” Buffy asked.

“Yup.”  Xander stepped past her into the kitchen.  “Also time to rethink dinner.  The lettuce is all wilted.”

Buffy gave him a look, arms crossed.  “You’re worried about _dinner_.  The thing that might be killing Spike is still on him after all, we don’t know what he meant about ‘crossing out these marks’, and you’re focusing on – on _salad_?”

“I’m focusing on us,” insisted Xander.  “You focus on Spike – and that’s fine, I respect that, he needs your help, fine, okay?  But you forget all about yourself when you do.”  He started scooping the salad bits out of the mixing bowl and into the garbage can.  “You and I both know you’re a mess right now – you’ve admitted it to me, so don’t act like I’m giving away some shocking secret – and you’re not taking care of yourself.  You’re worried about him.  Do you have any idea how worried the rest of us are, about you?”

Buffy looked away.

“You don’t sleep,” Xander went on, “I get up in the night to take a piss and I can hear you tossing and turning.  You don’t eat.  You spend half your time crying and the other half hiding in your room –”

“It’s not like I can just stop –” Buffy interrupted.

“And I’m not asking you to!” Xander exclaimed.  “Buffy, I’ve already told you,” he said, more quietly.  “It’s _okay_ for you not to be okay right now.  And I meant that.  Maybe you can’t believe me, since I’m a Scooby too and we all have the trust thing to deal with… but it’s true.  I love you as much as I love Willow, or Dawn, and you’re a mess, and you’re not taking care of yourself –” he held up a hand to stop her when she moved to protest, “so that means I get to take care of you.  As much as you’ll let me, anyway.”

Buffy just gaped at him as he reached for the phone.

“So just – just shut up and eat, okay?” he finished.  “I’m ordering a pizza.  You’re going to have at least two slices.  And then we’ll figure out what to do about Spike’s problem.”

“Xander, I…” but she wasn’t really sure how to finish that sentence.  _I never realized_ , maybe, or _I’m sorry_ , or any of a dozen other options.  _I’m a horrible friend_ came to mind.

He was on the phone, anyway.

When he hung up, she didn’t say anything, just gave him the hug he deserved.  “You’re a better friend than I have any right to expect,” she said softly.

“Pff,” was his reply.  “We’ve saved each other’s lives and we can’t deal with a little emotional fallout?”  He sighed.  “Sometimes… sometimes I wish I hadn’t gone to Africa.  Because sometimes it feels like I’m the only grownup out of all of us, and I’ve left the rest of you behind.”

Buffy paused.  Said carefully, “Part of why I decided to live here – with you, I mean – was because I want to grow up too.  Grow out of needing Giles, at the very least, you know?  I was… kinda hoping you’d be able to show me how to do that.”

Xander laughed.  “I’m not sure it works that way,” he said.  “Otherwise we could all just… go to school and take Adulthood 101 and be set, right?”

Buffy smiled.  “I suppose you’re right,” she said.  “Besides, nothing can be that easy where we’re concerned, right?  I mean, it’d probably have an apocalypse attached to it if it were that simple.”

“That’s us,” said Xander cheerfully.

Dinner went by in companionable silence.  Buffy picked at her slices but managed to eat the two Xander insisted she choke down.  He was right, of course; after Sunnydale, after Spike died the first time, she hadn’t been able to eat anything like a real meal for weeks afterward.  The rollercoaster she’d been on more recently had left her queasy, too, in more ways than one.  The thought of food wasn’t the only thing that made her feel ill – the thought of having to talk about some of what she was feeling, the thought of facing Giles ever again, the thought of facing Willow or the rest of her friends… she sighed.

Time to grow up, a little.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said softly.  “I’m sorry, for earlier.”

“Which part?” asked Xander.

“What, there’s more than one?” Buffy asked, panicking.

“No, no no,” he replied, waving his hand at her.  “I just… the day’s been kind of eventful, and I don’t know which part you’re talking about.”

“When I ducked out,” muttered Buffy.  God, this was hard.  “When Spike was first waking up, and I… just kinda bailed.”  She took a breath, shifted uncomfortably in her seat.  “I feel like I was being a… a coward, or something.”

“I was a little surprised,” admitted Xander.  “Can you tell me what was going through your head?  I mean – do you know?”

“Not really,” said Buffy heavily.  “It’s like… I’m having a tough time handling anything or anybody that’s not just peachy-okay-fine, right now, I guess.  And when Spike was all… messed up… I mean, somehow I can handle his mangled nasty body and it’s not that big a deal, but then when he finally starts to wake up I just –”  She stopped, sighed.  “I dunno.”

“It’d be kinda freaky to have him just walk back into your life even if he was totally fine, after all this time, right?” Xander guessed.  “Add all this magic and messages and Slayer dreams into the mix, plus the shape he’s in… I can see where it might be too much, coming at you out of nowhere.”

“It was, for a minute,” nodded Buffy.  “I just – suddenly I just had to get out of there.  Couldn’t face it.  Buffy was not with the dealing, right then.”  She sipped her drink, looked up at him shyly.  Bit her lip.  “Does that – does that make me a chicken?”

Xander thought for a second.  “Nah,” he said finally.  “Makes you having a tough time coping, but – can you imagine this being easy to handle?”

“No,” said Buffy flatly.  “This is a mess.  This is the kind of thing train wrecks are made of.  This is…” She paused, the revelation suddenly sinking in.  “This is not supposed to be easy to handle.”  She took a deep breath, felt her shoulders drop away from her ears.  “Wow.”

“Feel better?” asked Xander.

“Little bit,” she answered brightly.  “Quite a lot, actually.”

“Xander Harris, carpenter and amateur therapist, at your service,” he said with a smile.  “Dealing with screwed-up undead and their girlfriends a specialty, pay at the door…”

Buffy giggled.  Reached for another slice of pizza.  Froze.

“You said girlfriend,” she said in surprise.  “You’re… not going to freak out if we’re together?”

“Tell me you’re not,” snorted Xander.  “Actually, don’t.  Either way, as far as freaking out goes, it’s not really my business.  Especially if you guys haven’t figured things out yet for yourselves.”

“Um,” said Buffy.  “Okay.  I – to be honest, I’m not sure what we are.  And, you know, probably about as relevant as your dating life with… her name is Cathy, right?”

Xander blushed.  Buffy grinned.

“I, uh, do need to call her, though,” he said.  “Unless you want to bring Willow into this.  It’s just that Cathy already knows we’re looking at binding spells, and I think she was curious to know what we found.”

“I’m sorry,” said Buffy.  “I guess I’m not quite grown up enough, but I’m not ready to call Willow just yet.  But your friend – you’re sure she won’t mind helping us with this?”

“Professional interest.  And she’s already helped us with it, remember,” he said.  “Besides, I have a hunch I know what Spike was getting at, and I’m not liking it, so I really want to get Cathy to confirm what I’m thinking.  Or, you know, deny it.  Denying would be good.”

“Why?”  Buffy leaned back in her chair, eyes going flat.  This didn’t sound good, the way Xander was building it up.

Xander took a deep breath, blew it out slowly.  “Spike said something about crossing out the marks,” he said.  “And I noticed that all those cuts on him look like writing, kind of.”

“Yeah…?” she asked.

“Well, if it is writing, those cuts might actually _be_ the spell.  And crossing out the marks would be like, like scribbling out writing, which would turn it off, right?” said Xander.  “Only, if it is the spell, crossing it out would mean…”

“Would mean pulling a knife and cutting them off of Spike.”  Buffy put her head into her hands.  “Why do I have the feeling you’re completely right and we’re going to have to torture him in order to make things better?”

“Because that’s us?” he suggested.  “Why take the simple way out when the complicated one is just so much more interesting.”

“I’m beginning to hate interesting,” said Buffy.

Xander leaned back in his chair, slurped his drink.  “Good luck getting away from it,” he said.

Buffy shook her head.  Tossed her pizza bones into the garbage.  “Speaking of interesting,” she said, “I need to get back out to the garage.”

“Why?” Xander asked.

“What do you mean, why,” she said, “in case he wakes up again.  I need to be there for him.  He… he deserves not to wake up alone.”

“What I meant was, why does it have to be you,” said Xander.  “You were up with him all last night, right?  Why not let me take tonight?”

“Don’t you have to work tomorrow?” asked Buffy.

“I can go in late,” he said.  “Most of tomorrow is paperwork for me, I can afford to show up a little later than sunrise for once.”

“I don’t know…” she began.

“Buffy. Resolve face.  Don’t make me use it,” said Xander.  “You’re exhausted.  You’ve been taking care of Spike almost nonstop for the past twenty-four hours.  No one can say you’re neglecting him, okay?”  He stood up and stretched.  “I can leave the door open to the garage, sleep out here on the couch, so I can hear him if he wakes up.  You get some rest.”

Buffy bit her lip, thought about it. “If you’re sure,” she said.

“I’m sure, Buff.  Go.  Sleep.” He turned to go up the hall.  “Just let me grab my pillow and a spare blanket.”

“Okay,” said Buffy.  Yawned despite herself.  “Call Cathy.”

“I will,” Xander promised.  “But she usually works evenings, so we may not hear anything till morning.”

“Okay,” said Buffy.  “And… thanks.”

“What are friends for,” he replied.

* * *

 

Spike was running for his life.

The rain that had been pouring down all night, throughout their battle, was finally letting up.  Illyria had dragged his wounded self to a quiet corner.  The others…

The others were dead.  All of them.  _“Dead, all dead… all gone… no one…”_

Illyria, in her grief over Wesley’s death and her own rage at the insolence of these upstart demons that the Senior Partners had dared to send against them, had tapped into a previously undiscovered well of power within her and laid waste to thousands.  Spike wouldn’t put it past her to keep a few spines as trophies, the way she’d promised at the start of the night.  For his part, he thought he’d done pretty well for himself – the demons weren’t overwhelming in power, only in numbers, and he’d killed a few dozen at least, fists and fangs and swords and garbage cans, whatever weapons he could find to hand.  A good bit of fun with a torn-off stop sign, until it got stuck in one of the demons he impaled.

But now he was wounded, not just the usual collection of cuts and stabs but badly, seriously injured, could barely walk on his own, and Illyria had declared herself no longer entertained by the carnage.  Disgusted with her inability to eliminate the entire horde with a flick of her wrist and a wave of divine will, she informed her pet she was leaving this dimension, never to return.  In a magnanimous gesture, she declared that Spike would remain high in her regard – he had amused her – but despite that, she preferred to travel alone from now on.

She was grieving.  He could understand that.  Admire it, even, all things considered.

But she was leaving him behind.  _“Illyria… ‘Lyria, what’re you… you can’t…”_

He could understand that too, but wasn’t sure he’d be able to survive it.  Everyone else was dead.  If Illyria left, he’d be the sole survivor of Angel’s merry band, assuming he made it out of Los Angeles in one piece.  He had his doubts about that.

_“…leave me here? Alone… ‘Lyria?”_

She claimed she would put some kind of protection over him, a cloak of sorts that should last long enough for him to escape.  If he hurried.  If he didn’t collapse from his injuries and dust in some sunlit alleyway come morning.  If, when LA was dragged down into a hell dimension, he wasn’t dragged along with it.

_“All dead… meant to be too…”_

He was never intended to survive, and he knew it.  Not after he destroyed the Fell Brethren and saved the infant that was their holy vessel.  But by Christ he _wanted_ to survive, so once Illyria had disappeared – once he’d gotten over the shock that she’d really left him behind – he ran.

In his dream, Spike dodged the sun, crossing alleys between skyscrapers, until abruptly he was hiding among trees and crossing grassy clearings in a countryside he’d never visited.  Instead of ducking into the parking garage where he stole one of Angel’s cars, he found himself inside a ruined barn, crouched in the shadows next to Figg.  Staring at the burned bodies that surrounded them, instead of the hordes of Hell, splashed with blood and ichor.

 _“I don’t understand,”_ Figg was saying.  _“How did I survive?  They’re all – they’re – they left me.  How could they do that? I don’t understand.”_

Spike didn’t understand either.

_“Just us… ‘s just us now… how did we – Figg? They’re all dead, Figg… you’re meant… meant to be too… how did I… I don’t understand.”_

Then Illyria was standing before them, and Figg had pulled out lengths of chain and barbed wire, and Spike still didn’t understand why any of it was happening.  How he’d managed to make it when everyone else had been destroyed; how he’d gotten caught by a senile old coot and bound in his spell; how he’d been rescued when no one had known he was taken.

He backed away from Figg, then Illyria was swinging a shovel at his face – Spike flinched, ducked out of the way. Too slow, too slow, the shovel was going to connect, this would hurt… felt the beginnings of the impact against his skull…

…and woke up, panting.  The sigils inscribed all along his limbs and torso burned fiercely, and his ribs ached.  The one time that not having to breathe was actually more comfortable than giving into reflex, and he had to have nightmares that negate the advantage.

Without thinking, he moved to wipe a hand across his face.  They didn’t budge – again.  Glancing down, he saw to his chagrin that Buffy or Xander had put the belts back around his arms, strapping him firmly to the frame of the cot.  Only this time, when he twisted his wrists experimentally, nothing happened.  There was no give at all, and his shaking fingers had nowhere to go.

And on top of that, he was alone.  No one in the garage when he woke up, this time, although someone had left the door open leading into the house.  He listened, but there were no noises inside that he could detect, no puttering in the kitchen, no telly in the living room.  No water running through the pipes that he could hear.

No light behind the tarps over the garage windows.  It was night, they were asleep, and he was hungry and helpless… and alone.

He swallowed.

Sodding nightmares.


	21. Reconciled, Spells

The next time Xander opened his eyes, daylight was streaming in through the living room windows.  He yawned and stretched contentedly for a moment, before freezing as the realization hit.

Spike!  He’d promised Buffy he would check on Spike and keep an ear out in case he needed to feed again overnight.  And according to Buffy, he’d been drinking blood every few hours since they’d released him from the bindings of that spell that he’d been held under, so he had to have woken up at least once…

Crap.

Crap, crap, crap.  Xander tried to jump to his feet and ended up staggering instead.  Almost falling across the coffee table.  He should have known better than to assume Spike would be loud enough to wake him up.  Ordinarily, sure, he was obnoxious and kept a guy from sleeping, but right now?  Between the broken ribs and the general weakness he probably couldn’t raise his voice much at all.  Xander smacked his forehead.  Should have brought an alarm clock with him or something to force him to check on the vampire every so often. Crap.  Mornings sucked.  Mornings sucked without coffee, they sucked whenever you weren’t on a job site, and they definitely sucked when…

“It’s about time someone got moving in there,” came Spike’s voice through the doorway. 

…when you had a pissed-off member of the bloodsucking undead in your garage to deal with as soon as you woke up.  And not very loud, either, sure enough.

“Be out in a second,” Xander grunted, fumbling his way to the kitchen.

“What,” he heard Spike grumble, “you can’t come out now?”

“Not unless you want your breakfast served cold,” Xander grumbled back.  “Which can be arranged, no trouble.”

Finally he stumbled out into the garage, hadn’t put his eye patch on yet, yawning and carrying a warm mug full of blood.  Spike was glaring at the door, flat on his back and tugging at the belts that held his arms down.  He wasn’t in game face, at least.

“You’re looking especially coherent this morning,” Xander said.

“I’m starving and I’ve been laying here for hours,” said Spike.  “If you’d taken these bloody things off before your beauty sleep I could have found the microwave on my own.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” said Xander.  “Right now you have to pick between sitting up _or_ breathing because your ribs won’t let you do both at the same time.  And I’m trying to imagine you doing anything that involves bending your knee – like, oh, standing up and walking to the microwave – and I gotta say, can’t really picture it.”

Spike looked away, tried to twist his wrists inside the restraints.  Xander suspected he didn’t realize he was doing it.  “The least you could do was pick belts that matched,” he groused.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Xander replied, “all my straitjackets are at the drycleaners, but I hear they’re having a sale down at Shackles-R-Us.”  He set the mug down, leaned across the cot.  Definitely inside Spike’s personal space.

“What are you doing?” he said.  Quiet.  Afraid?  Nah, thought Xander.  Couldn’t be.

“If you’re really all here,” he grunted, “if – ow – if your mind is back here with the rest of us and you can keep from going all feral-demonspawn on us, then you don’t need the belts anymore.”  Released the buckle on Spike’s left arm, sat up.  “They were just a precaution anyway,” he added.

“Buffy mentioned,” Spike said.  “Was it – was I that bad?”

“You almost bit her,” said Xander seriously.  Looked up to see Spike’s eyes wide, disbelieving.  “If you hadn’t been too weak to break the skin, you would have had her.  Here,” he said, holding up his hand.  Indicated the gap between finger and thumb.  “Right in here – she was pretty much touching your face when she was taking those red cords off, so…”

Spike was silent for a moment while Xander undid the other belt.  “Not a fatal bite, at least,” he offered.  Massaged his wrists once they were both free.  His hands were looking better, at least.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Xander said.  “Like she said – you weren’t really in control.  You were barely conscious, and you looked – you looked bad, man.  Like, walking skeleton bad.   Like you’d gone without for months.  Way too many bones showing.”  Helped Spike sit up, settled a bleacher-back chair in behind him to lean against.  Handed him the full mug.

Spike didn’t move for a moment.  “You wouldn’t worry about it,” he repeated.  “About me, biting Buffy.  Isn’t this the part where you’re supposed to threaten to stake me or something like that?  Keep away from Buffy or else?”

Xander just shrugged while Spike drank.  “You couldn’t help it,” he said.  “Also, it isn’t really my business whether the two of you spend time together or not.  Which is good since I practically had to hit Buffy over the head to get her out of here last night.”  Watched as Spike processed that revelation. 

“Why isn’t she here right now, then?” Spike asked.

“I just – oh –,” Xander yawned again, “I made her go get some sleep.  She was up with you pretty much around the clock yesterday, so I offered to take a turn handling your feedings or whatever last night.  And for what it’s worth, I apologize.  For over-sleeping.  I promised Buffy I’d keep an ear out for you, and then I didn’t.”

Spike swallowed, licked his lips.  “You wouldn’t worry about it, you’re not warning me off with threats of staking, _and_ you’re offering me an apology?” he asked.  Squinted at him warily.  “Who are you, and what’ve you done with the real Xander Harris?”

He chuckled.  “He grew up.  I know – I wasn’t expecting it either.”  Xander rubbed at the little callus on his cheek, where the eye patch always rubbed.  Sighed.  “Seriously?  I’m not that person anymore.  And even if I was, I figure, if you single-handedly close the Hellmouth I can cut you a little slack.  In the meantime,” he smiled, “I’m wondering how it is that whenever _you_ get in trouble, _I_ end up being the one to play host while you recover.”

“You’d have to ask Buffy that,” said Spike, “I’ve never had anything to do with it.”  Tipped his mug back and emptied it with a wince.  “Speaking of… do I remember it right?  That she was here, last night?”

“Yeah,” said Xander.  “She still is.  It’s just early yet and she’s sleeping.  At least, she better be.”  He sighed.  “She’s…. she hasn’t been doing very well lately.  Kind of a long story.”

“And I suppose her Watcher has something to say about whether you tell me any of it,” said Spike.  Sour expression on his face.  “And all the rest of the Scoobies, too, yeah?  Spike doesn’t get to know… what is it you always used to say?  ‘What’s the what?’”

“The rest of us aren’t here,” said Xander, shaking his head.  “It’s just me, and Buff until she finds her own place.  And as for Giles… he’s actually part of the long story.  So are you, come to think of it.”  He paused, frowned thoughtfully.  “And it isn’t that I’m keeping things from you, it’s just that it’s not really my story to tell.  Just don’t be surprised when Buffy decides to have _words_ with you over the part where you haven’t actually been dead the whole past year.”

Spike glanced at Xander sideways.  “Look, mate, are you sure this isn’t the part where you tell me it’s good I was gone, and to keep away from her?  Because I keep expectin’ that part, and it’s drivin’ me sack-of-hammers that you’re not sayin’ it.”

“No,” said Xander quietly.  “This is the part where I ask you to let her get some rest, and try not to push her too hard.  She’s… I dunno.  She’s right on the edge of falling apart.  All this has really been hard on her.”

“All of what?” Spike asked.

“Finding you,” he replied.  “Bringing you back here, especially in the shape you were in.  Getting you back from the dead, more or less, since she thought you were gone this whole time.  And… you know.  The rest of the long story that isn’t mine to tell.”

Spike looked at his lap for a moment.

“Anyway, the rest of the Scoobies… Buffy hasn’t been in touch with them since she got here a couple weeks ago.  They don’t know you’re back, and as far as I know that’s how Buffy wants it, at least for the time being.”

Spike was silent, and Xander could see him struggling to find words.  “Why?” he finally asked.

“You mean, why doesn’t Buffy want to talk to her friends?”

“No,” said Spike.  “Though I expect I’ll be asking that question too.  No, I meant, why are you being this… civil… toward me?  ‘S not like you, Harris.”

Xander chuckled again.  “Well,” he started.  Then his face grew sad.  “You, uh.  I could give you the usual patented Xander Harris smartass answer, but the truth is…”  He paused, rubbed at his cheek again. “The truth is another long story,” he said finally.  “And frankly, you should probably be resting instead of listening to it right now.  Let’s just say that I had good reasons in my own head, deeply personal reasons to hate your guts, and none of those reasons are valid anymore – and…” he looked away for a second, “and some of them probably never were in the first place.  Like it or not, you’re… God, I can’t believe I’m saying this – you’re good for Buffy, from what I can see.  I could keep being an ass toward you, but I’d be a hypocrite if I did and I’m just… not really interested in playing those games anymore.”

Spike blinked.  Surprise wasn’t an expression Xander had seen on him before, when he stopped to think about it.  Considering he’d been a vampire for over a century, it was kinda cool that Xander had been able to put it there.

Spike studied him for a moment.  Tipped his head and asked him, “Does it hurt?”

“Huh?”

“You’re not wearing your eye patch,” he pointed out.  “You keep rubbing at it.  Does it hurt?”

“Oh.  No,” said Xander.  “No, I just woke up, and I don’t sleep with it on – and sometimes the callus itches a little.”  He flushed, looked away.  “I can go get it, if you’d rather…”

“Boy,” growled Spike, “I’ve seen worse – created far worse – than your missing eye.  Don’t think I’ve gone all soft and delicate, just because of the soul.  Going to faint because you’re not wearing your patch.”  He snorted.  “If it makes you feel better, go put it on,” he said.  “And bring back another mugful when you’re done.”

Xander stopped.  A slow grin spread across his face.  “I know what you’re doing, you know,” he said.

“Well, yeah,” said Spike, “I’m distractin’ you from that other topic and manipulating you into bringing me more breakfast.”  Stopped, shifted on the cot.  “Is it working?”

Xander just snickered and left the garage.  When he came back a few minutes later he was wearing his eye patch.  And carrying a full thermos.

* * *

 

“So listen,” Harris said after Spike finished another mug, “I got two things.  The first one is that I’m thinking we might be able to get you moved into the house later today, after I get home from work.”

“Was wondering about that,” murmured Spike.

“We couldn’t bring you inside before,” said Xander, “because… okay, how do I say this.  You were in the bottom of that cistern and you stank.”

Spike snorted.

“Just telling it like it is,” the boy said.  “And then you weren’t really in any shape to move – you kinda still aren’t, really, and the cot doesn’t fit through any of the doorways.  Unless we bring you around to the patio, I guess, but it’s kind of a hike clear to the back of the house and we didn’t want to drop you on your head.”

“If I’m not getting off this cot any time soon,” said Spike carefully, “I’d just as soon be parked in front of a telly as stashed out here with the lawn furniture.  If it’s all the same to you.”

“Actually I was thinking of bringing home a leg brace and just taking it slow, until we got you into a guest room,” said Xander.  “Buffy’s in the main one, but I have two more rooms that would work for you with a little time to set up.”

Harris’s house was that large?  Boy was moving up in the world.  “Nice place,” said Spike.

“Watcher’s Council decided I deserved to get paid for traipsing all over Africa,” he replied.

“Africa, was it?” Spike asked.

“I was playing Find The Baby Slayer for most of last year,” Xander said.

Spike nodded.  Explained a lot, that did.  Africa was the kind of place that changed a person forever, if you let it.  He drank some more, thought for a moment.  “You said there were two things?” he asked.

“Yeah, said Xander.  “Last night you mentioned something about those,” and he gestured at the sigils on Spike’s bare torso.  “Something about crossing them out?  I put a call in to a local witch last night, but she hasn’t called back yet.  Now that you’re awake I can just ask you.”

“You’re not using Red?” Spike asked.

Xander shook his head.  “Buffy still hasn’t called anyone, remember,” he replied.  “Cathy isn’t as powerful, but who is, you know?  And she knows her stuff.”  He gestured again.  “So, those.”

“Yeah,” said Spike. Touched them with a fingertip.  “Figg recited the spell, but he also sealed it on me.  That’s these marks.  You didn’t do anything wrong getting the rest of the binding off, far as I can tell.  You just need to cross out the seals to get the last of it.”

“Yeah, and why does that sound like it involves slicing you up with a knife?” asked Xander.  “I mean, what, we’re supposed to just filet whole sections off of you to get rid of the words?”  He shuddered.

Spike shook his head.  “Nah, Harris.  ’S nothing so drastic,” he said.  “You just draw a line through them, like crossing out writing.  Yeah, it’ll hurt, but not as much as putting them on did.  Not even as much as they hurt now.  They still burn – like they’re all made of hot wire, under the skin.”

“Ouch.”  Xander couldn’t help but wince.  “That’s still going on?  Like, right now?”

“Never stopped,” said Spike.  “But once you cross them out, they’re meaningless.  No more seals.  The writing will stop burning and just be so many paper cuts.”  He shrugged, winced and reached for his ribs.  “The crossing-out part will probably hurt less than what’s going on right now.”

The boy shuddered, and Spike marveled that Xander really seemed to give a damn what was happening to him.  “Is there anything special we need to do?” he asked.  “Like… a sequence, or stuff we should chant, or whatever?”

“There’s probably an order to it, yeah, but the rest… not that I know of,” said Spike, “but if I were you I’d check with that witch you’ve got handy.  Not the kind of thing I’d want to see messed up, being as it’s my own bloody skin.”

“Literally,” muttered Xander.  Looked at the clock on the wall.  “Listen, I need to get around, get to work.  Will you be all right out here till Buffy wakes up?”

“Probably catch another nap myself,” he replied.  “You just leave a thermos where I can reach it, she can get as much rest as she needs.  Made it sound like she needs it, earlier, yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Xander.  “Yeah, she really does.”  He chewed his lip and looked over his shoulder at the open doorway to the kitchen.  “Buffy needs pretty much whatever we can give her right now.”

 _She needs you_ , thought Spike, remembering all the coincidences, the reading, Drusilla’s urging in his dream.  _Go to her._

“I can do that much,” he said quietly.


	22. Strange Dreams, Witchcraft

The battle.  In Spike’s dream, there was a battle raging around him, but he wasn’t in it.  Why wasn’t he – ?  Oh, right.  Wounded.  He’d gotten himself hurt badly, could barely walk, and now he was hiding, struggling to remember how he’d gotten there. He was a couple blocks away from the meeting point; Illyria had brought him here, that was it.  Illyria had brought him, now he remembered, only…

Only something wasn’t right.  This place didn’t look familiar; it was too light out to be night, and the rain… it was supposed to be raining.  Here there was only fog, turning everything gray and shapeless.  Making the buildings all but invisible.  Muting the sounds of the fighting, the screams of enraged demonkind pulled out of Hell to face them – Angel and his crew.

But Angel and the rest, they were all dead.  All except for him.

There was a tug at his shoulder, and he looked round to see Figg, humming cheerfully and wrapping him in rusty chain.  Spike tried to protest, to stop him, but when he reached up he saw that his hands were bound in barbed wire.  No, they were missing, cut off.  No, they were only tied with cord.  It was one of those.  Or all of them, maybe.  He couldn’t tell for sure.  Perhaps it was all of them.

Illyria stood before him while Figg walked in circles around him, again and again, pulling the chains tight.  Getting harder to breathe – not that he needed to, but the air was important if he wanted to speak.  Illyria’s head was tipped in that way she had when he’d done something to confuse her, or when she was irritated with him – and she’d been irritated with him often enough, God knew.  Her mouth moved but he couldn’t make out what she was saying.  He thought he remembered something about her leaving.

Leaving him behind.

Angel shook his head, disappointed in Spike the way he always was.  Kissed Spike on the forehead where he sat in his wheelchair, and smirked, and disappeared into the rain.  Only it wasn’t raining here.  It was fog, nothing but fog and mist everywhere he looked.  Everything gray and shapeless.  Figg pulled the chains tighter across his chest.

Illyria walked away, never once looking back, took a step sideways and vanished as he watched.  Even in his dream Spike knew that wasn’t right.  She hadn’t done that in Los Angeles, he was sure of it.  She’d had more to say before she left him, hadn’t she?  Hadn’t there been more to it?

Had she really just gone?

Spike tried to ask Figg about it, but the old demon had vanished too, some time while he was watching Illyria go.  Tried to call out, see if anybody could hear him, but the chains were too tight.  Couldn’t get the air he needed, couldn’t make a sound.

He was standing in the gray void and he couldn’t move.  There was no one as far as the eye could see, and there was only silence within the fog.  Everything gray, and shapeless.

He was helpless, again.

He was alone.

A gong sounded in the distance, once, twice.  Women’s voices.  Women… Buffy.

Spike startled awake with a pained gasp.

* * *

 

In Buffy's dream, she was jogging. No, she was fleeing from the collapsing Hellmouth. No, she was patrolling. It was a pleasant day, and the sun shone brightly on the vampires as she staked them. Giles watched her from atop a tombstone. No, he was in the bleachers, sitting behind his desk as she ran around the track, again and again. It was for her own good, he explained, as he pulled out a crossbow and took aim at her forehead.

She ducked, and under the water she found herself staring at Spike. He didn't see her, his eyes cloudy and gray, a drowned corpse weighted in chains and wound about in silk cord. No, it was a cocoon. He was struggling to break free, but his wings were stuck. "I shouldn't be here," he said. She reached out to help pull him free but her grip slipped and he vanished, leaving her holding only the diamond amulet.

Buffy put it on, because she had to close the Hellmouth. It was up to her.  Her friends were counting on her.  A beam of sunlight shot from her chest as the caverns collapsed into rubble.  Spike smiled at her sadly, and shook his head, and walked back up the stairs.

Giles smiled at her sadly, and shook his head, and walked back up the stairs.

A hand at her shoulder. Xander stood behind her, holding a stack of fresh towels and bedsheets, asking her not to use up all the fabric softener when she did her laundry. Buffy sat in the passenger seat of the van and promised him she wouldn't.

The First Slayer looked at her from the driver's seat, all caked mud and dreadlocked hair. "You were not listening," she said. "Check again." Buffy pulled the tracking talisman out of her pocket, Spike's ring swinging on its chain. _Where are you, Spike_ , she asked it. Then she was holding his hand, the skull ring on his finger, back in the caverns beneath Sunnydale as the flames began to take hold. "They're all dead," he said. "I shouldn't be here. But thanks for saying it."

"I did not say death is your gift," said the First Slayer. No, it was her mom. No, it was Tara. Maybe it was all of them.  She kept changing as she said, "The dead.  His death was your gift.  He is your gift, my gift.  He is for you.  Go to him.  He needs you."

"No, Buffy," said Giles, "you can't open your present until you cut the cake." He handed her a knife - a sword - a pair of scissors - the blade crawling with runes and sigils that made her eyes hurt to look at. "Cut the white ribbon first," he said. "Like this," and she watched as he pushed the sword gently through her breast until she could feel it come out her back. Her blood made pretty patterns on the sidewalk. She was standing in a patch of red flowers, a bank of them on a table in Figg's greenhouse.

She reached behind her and pulled the stake free. It didn't hurt. It slid easily into her hand. "This is for Spike, right?" she asked.

"The help never stays," said Figg. "I wanted to keep him."

"He belongs to me," said Buffy. She handed him the stake. No, it was a shovel. No, it was a sickle. She handed him the red flower. "I'll trade you. You can have this."

"He's your present," said Figg.

"No, I'm not," said Spike. "But thanks for saying it."

"You have to unwrap him first," said Giles. He swung the sickle in slow motion, cutting off Spike's head. "But you can't have him because you didn't eat my cake."

Spike sat on the cot smiling. He thought Giles was funny. The head he held in his lap was sad. "I shouldn't be here," it said.

"How bad is it?" Buffy asked it.

"Bad enough that I feel cold," Spike's head said. Spike was lying on the cot. He was leaning back against her as she held his arms behind him. He was leaning into her touch as she stroked his cheek. "The tape's good. 'S helping."

"Yes," said Zer Moduz, blinking at them both with her orange eyes. "The Auspicious Body. You must go to him."

A hand on her shoulder. "Just as long as you clean up afterward," said Xander. "I'm ordering a pizza."

The doorbell rang.

Buffy woke up.

She opened her eyes, and blinked sleepily, confused when she heard the doorbell ring again.  Looking at the clock on her bedside table, Buffy was shocked to see that it was nearly lunchtime.  Had Xander really let her sleep that long?  She sat up, yawning, wondering if he was still home… but no, he would’ve answered the door.

Oh, right.  The door.

Shuffled to the door still in her jammies, opened it to the sight of the witch who had helped them make the tracking talisman out of Spike’s ring.  Squinted, trying to remember… oh, right.

“Cathy?”

“Hi,” she said, “I’m so sorry – Xander, I mean, Mr. Harris, he warned me you might still be asleep if I came by earlier, so I waited till my lunch break.  I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You did,” mumbled Buffy, “but it’s… fine.  Um.  Yeah, fine.  I can’t believe I slept this late.” Must have been more tired than she thought.  “Um, why are you – I mean…”

Cathy grinned.  “You haven’t had your morning coffee yet, have you?” she said.  Her smile softened, warm and friendly.  “Would it be all right if I came in?  You can take your time, wake up – I’m not in a hurry, or anything.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Buffy.  “Your lunch break?”

“I take long lunches,” said the witch.  She was dressed business casual, flowy skirt and sensible shoes, blouse, purse.  Hair pulled back with a neat little clip.  “Xander – I mean, Mr. Harris – he asked me to come by and look at that binding spell your friend was under.  Something about writing? On your friend’s skin?”

“Yeah,” said Buffy, “Spike, yeah.”  She needed to check on him… no.  She needed to get coffee so she didn’t trip and land on him.  Definitely of the bad, crashing onto someone’s broken ribs.  Of the rude, crashing onto them at all.  Coffee.  Where was the… right, on the counter.  “The spell,” she said, “I, we got all the other stuff off of him – at least, I think we did it right, Spike said last night that he was pretty sure we got everything else.  But he made it sound like we’d need to hurt him to get the last part.  The, uh, the writing.”

“That’s what Xa – Mr. Harris said,” nodded Cathy.  “He asked if I would mind coming over and taking a look at – you said his name was Spike?  If it’s okay with him.”

“Sure,” said Buffy. “I mean, I’ll ask him, but it should be fine.  I think.  Just – let me wake up, ‘kay?”

“No problem,” said Cathy.

Small talk about the weather.  How do you like Toledo so far.  That kind of thing.  Coffee.  Coffee good. 

Buffy dressed and splashed water on her face, pulled her hair back into a tail.  Didn’t want to keep Cathy waiting.  She was nice.  Buffy debated asking her about Xander, decided to play nice for the time being.  It’s one thing to tease your friends; this woman, even if it was obvious she was totally into Xander, was still mostly a stranger.  She felt, though, like someone who could easily become a friend with just a little time.

Maybe it was a witch thing; they all just seemed so _together_.  Well, they did once they had a handle on their power, anyway.

New friends were a good thing if you were trying to start a new life, right?

“Thanks for being so patient,” Buffy said as she came back out to the living room.  “Here, this way.  I’m… you should let me go first.  He’s been pretty out of it when he first wakes up, these past couple days.”

“Mr. Harris said Spike… wasn’t human?” asked Cathy tentatively.  “Is that why he’s in the garage?”

“Um.”  Buffy blushed.  Yeah, they really needed to get him inside soon.  “That’s part of it,” she said.  “He’s a vampire… will that be a problem?”

Cathy stopped.  “I – well, it – I mean, for the spell, it shouldn’t make a difference.  Although there’s probably a few extra parts to it to take care of that… um… that side of his personality?”  She bit her lip.  “Is he… does he hunt anymore?”

“I only bite if you ask nicely, pet,” said Spike through the open garage door.  Husky voice, like he’d just woken up himself.  Buffy always liked that voice… no.  Focus.  Nervous witch, pesky vampire.

“Behave, Spike,” Buffy yawned.  Stepped into the garage to see him struggling to sit upright, trying not to show the pain on his face.  No belts.  Thermos on the little camp table by his cot.  “Did you – did you sleep okay?”  And wow, look at that, boy did she feel shy all of a sudden.

“Dreams,” said Spike. “And I don’t get to move around with these soddin’ ribs. Mostly okay, though.” Paused.  “How about you?”    He looked up at her through his lashes… shy?  Spike, tentative and shy?

Nah.

“Dreams,” said Buffy.  “But I was asleep for more than twelve hours, so… you know.”  She shrugged, looked away.  Noticed Cathy standing in the doorway and slapped herself mentally.  _Get a grip, Buffy_.

“Well, anyway, it’s good that you’re awake now,” she said.  “Do you – are you hungry?”  She pulled the camp chair around nearer to his head.  Her fingers itched to touch his hair, but Spike wasn’t the only one who needed to behave in front of company.

“Hard to sleep with you two birds nattering on,” he said.  Buffy rolled her eyes; she could hear the bullshit behind his words even if Cathy couldn’t.  He nodded toward the thermos.  “And I just finished mine, thanks.”

Cathy hung back by the door, but she must have seen something in the way Buffy acted around Spike, helping him to move, bracing him as he settled, because after a moment she stepped down into the garage.  “No offense, but is it okay if I don’t introduce myself?” she asked.  She shrugged shyly.  “Names, power, all that good stuff.”

He cocked his head at her, a half-smile on his face.  “My mum didn’t name me ‘Spike,’ if it makes you feel any better,” he said.  “Who’re you, then?”

“I helped Buffy and, uh, Xander – to find you,” she said.  “They used a tracking talisman I made.”  She glanced at Buffy, leaning against Xander’s workbench.  “I meant to ask – did it…?”

“Worked great,” said Buffy.  “Right up till we got so close that the chain snapped, and the ring flew into the… um.  Well, it landed right where he was hidden,” she finished.  Carefully not looking at him as she said it.  Spike’s ordeal was private, she thought.  Not her story to tell.  It should stay that way.

“That’s good,” said Cathy.  She kept looking at Spike, then glancing away like she was nervous, or shy, or… “That is one nasty spell,” she said.  “When you said writing I thought you meant with ink or something, not... cut into him like that.”  She shuddered.  “And then the sigils themselves – just the parts I can see on… on your chest.  The writing makes my eyes hurt.”

Yeah, or that.

“Doesn’t feel so great, either, pet,” said Spike.  “They burn.”

Wait, they did?  “They do?” asked Buffy.

“Not to worry,” he reassured her.  “Your friend here is going to tell us how to get them off, yeah?”

“You,” Buffy began, swallowed, “you made it sound like we’d need to cut them.”

“You will,” said Cathy and Spike, simultaneously.  He nodded at her to go ahead.  “I’m really sorry, but the way they were put on makes a difference.  You need to cross out the writing, draw a line through it.  If it were just ink, I’d mix something up for you to just paint over them, but.  Well, it’s.  There’s really no way around it,” she said.  “I wish there was.”

“S all right,” said Spike, “about what I expected.”  Buffy folded her arms and squeezed at her shoulders.  They _were_.  Her suspicions were right; they _were_ going to have to hurt him in order to take this last part of the spell off of him.  “How do we go about it, then?” he asked.

“Well, in terms of tools, just a good sharp blade,” said Cathy.  “A scalpel would hurt less, I imagine – ordinarily I’d suggest blessing the blade as an extra step to help negate the spell, but… I’m not sure that would be best, considering that you’re a – well – you’re –”

“I’m a vampire, pet,” said Spike, “you don’t need to dance around it.  And yeah, a blessed blade leaves a mark that takes a bit of extra time to heal.”  He reached up, touched his eyebrow with a glance at Buffy.  Wow.  She knew the Slayer in China had given that to him.  He’d gotten it over a century ago and he still had a scar?  He wasn’t kidding.

“I’d still at least purify the blade, though,” Cathy was saying.  “It’s not as strong as a blessing, but that way there won’t be any negative energy to add to what’s already in the sigils.”

“Right,” said Spike.  “Anything else we should know?”

“Well, uh, the order they were put on you is important,” said Cathy.  “You need to go in the reverse order to remove the spell completely.  Otherwise there would be a, a kind of residue.  You’d never be able to get back to your full strength as long as it existed.”  She glanced at his torso again, looked away squinting.  “From what I can read, those are for the demon… and a soul?  That doesn’t make sense… but they wouldn’t be the final part of the spell,” she said.  “There should be a set of seals somewhere else – typically, if you’re binding a person, you put them on the palms and the soles of the feet.”

Spike held out a hand for her to see.

“Yes,” she nodded decisively.  She dropped into the camp chair and leaned forward, distracted from Spike’s nature by the challenge in front of her.  “Yes, those are the seals.  Those absolutely must come off first before you do the rest of the writing.”  Cathy reached out a fingertip, not quite touching the marks on his forearm.  “These are for earth,” she said.  Followed the line up to the inside of his bicep.  “And these are for air,” she said.  “The demon sigils are here,” she pointed, “those are for fire, and then the ones in this direction, the ones for the soul, they include water.” 

She sat back, looked Spike in the eye.  “Do you remember the order in which the elements were placed?” she asked.  “Each set of markings?”

“My memory’s pretty clear on that, yeah,” he said dryly.

“Then as long as you remember to treat them backwards, you‘ll be fine,” she said.  Looked up at Buffy.  “If you pick out a knife from the kitchen, even, I can purify it for you before I go back to work.  You can get started on these as soon as I’m done, if you want.”

Buffy bit her lip.  “Do we.”  Looked away, took a deep breath.  _You can do this_ , she told herself.  “Do we have to do them all at once?”  She met Cathy’s gaze.  Carefully didn’t look at Spike.  “I just – I mean, can we take breaks in between each element, or whatever?  Give him…”  She hugged herself tighter.

It was bad enough, everything else Spike had gone through.  Now she had to do this to him, and Buffy wasn’t sure she’d be able to get through it if she had to go straight from beginning to end – and she wasn’t going to be the one on the receiving end.  She wanted to give Spike time to at least catch his breath in between sections.

Or, you know, the undead equivalent.  A break.  Something.

Cathy thought about it.  “I’d say… if you had to, you could probably stretch it out over a couple days,” she said.  “Give one set time to start healing before you start the next set.  But you’d need to monitor the moon phase if you do that, and you couldn’t take more than a week no matter what.”

A couple days?  That sounded good, thought Buffy…

“I’d rather just get it over with, love,” said Spike.  “All in one go.  Rather not drag it out, if it’s all the same to you.”

…and that didn’t.

Typical Spike.


	23. Awkwardness, Sorrow

Well, this was awkward.

Cathy had taken care of her business in the kitchen, some little purification ritual with the sharpest knife Buffy was able to find; said something friendly about getting back to work, and had gone her merry way.  That left Buffy alone in the house with Spike, which would have been great, only she had no idea what to say to him now that he was awake and, you know, alert.  Not out of his mind with hunger, or delirious or whatever.

He was sitting up on the cot, leaning against some kind of stadium seat that he said Xander had gotten out for him earlier that morning.  He seemed comfortable enough.  Maybe.  She guessed.

Buffy found herself looking anywhere except at him, like some kind of… of middle-schooler with a crush, or something.  If she had a three-ring binder, she was almost positive she’d be clutching it to her chest and blushing, or something just as ridiculous.  It didn’t help that Spike wouldn’t look at her, either, just kept glancing up and away, or picking at the skin around his thumbnail, studying his hands like they held the answer to all the world’s mysteries.

And it really, really didn’t help that Xander wouldn’t be home for _hours_.

Oh, God.  Say something, Buffy.

“So,” she said.  _Idiot_ , she thought.

“Er – yes?” Spike looked up.  Looked away.  Damn it.

“Um,” said Buffy.  Because she was just a genius like that.  “I, uh.  Your thermos.  Um. I’ll just – let me refill that.  For you.”

“Right,” said Spike.  “Uh – thanks. That’d be – yes.”

So Buffy picked up the thermos and fled to the kitchen like the absolute coward she was, and once she was around the corner, she leaned up against the fridge and pounded her forehead with the heel of her hand.  Contemplated smacking herself with the thermos, instead.

Why was this so hard?

 _Well, let’s see_ , Buffy thought as she rinsed the thermos out in the sink.  There was someone out in the garage, naked under his blanket, who’d been missing for a year; someone Buffy had mourned as dead.  Someone who turned out to be alive after all – which she found out about a day before rescuing him from almost dying again – someone with whom she had major, major history… she sighed.  Someone with whom she may or may not be in love.  Someone who may or may not still have any feelings for her or even want to be around her, as reference the whole missing for a year thing…

Oh, and soon she would have to hurt him some more, take a knife to his already injured flesh, just to get rid of the last of the spell that had nearly killed him. 

Well, gosh, Buffy, why not just ask him about the weather?

She smiled to herself as she reached for the towel.  Sarcasm – always a good defense against nerves.

Puttering in the kitchen.  Pouring blood out of the bag, heating it, pouring it back in the thermos.  Chewing on her lip the whole time.

Deep breath, Buffy.  You can do this.

* * *

 

Spike was an idiot.  A first-class ponce.  A complete and utter fool.

Buffy was making an effort to tolerate him, he could tell, taking pains to be courteous to him after he’d inflicted himself on her like this.  Cut up, injured, naked, and taking up space in Harris’s garage like so much furniture, and Buffy was at least trying to hold a conversation with him, now that he was awake.

And what did he do?  Stutter and stammer as if… as if he were in the parlor of some London socialite at her debutante party, somewhere he didn’t really belong.  As if she were Cecily and he were still the complete loser that William had been in life, pining after someone he could never have. 

Well, but those were the operative terms, weren’t they?  Somewhere he didn’t belong.  Someone he could never have.

Story of his unlife.

Spike couldn’t blame Buffy for fleeing the room.  He was certain that if he’d had a pair of glasses to hand he’d be pushing them up his nose, or else polishing them frantically like Buffy’s pillock of a Watcher.  Instead he picked at the gauze wrapped around one wrist and fought a sigh.  Ow.  Sodding ribs.  Stupid thing to do when one didn’t need to breathe.

He could hear her puttering about in the kitchen, could faintly smell the aroma of blood being warmed. His stomach growled and he marveled that he could still be so hungry.  Had to have put back a couple gallons of the stuff in the past day or so, yeah?  He hadn’t drunk like that even back when he was still on human, fresh from the jugular.  Well, not without an excuse, anyway.

Focus, idiot.

Buffy would be back soon.  Perhaps they’d talk about this whole business with the knifeplay.  It was obvious from her expression, from what she’d said to the witch, that he’d need to reassure her about that.  The inscriptions on his skin still burned.  Cutting them to cancel their magic couldn’t hurt more than they already did.

Or maybe they’d talk about where he’d been hiding this past year.  Why he was too much of a coward to go to her without bleedin’ mystical interventions kicking him that way first.

Or perhaps they’d just discuss how much longer he’d be allowed to stay, before he needed to get his own digs to finish recuperating in.  Least now he had the funds to afford something nicer than a crypt – and he’d been smart, back in LA, didn’t keep his dosh where Wolfram & Sodding Hart could get at it without a little effort.  Swiss banks, offshore accounts, that sort of thing.  He should be set for a good while, once he…

…once Buffy kicked him out.  She’d probably at least be polite about it, but still.  Matter of time, that.

She was coming.

Deep breath, Spike.  Ow.  Or not.

Right, mate.  You can do this.

* * *

 

“Hey,” she said.  Tapped on the door frame.

He looked up, smiled at her tentatively, and wasn’t that just weird.  Spike, tentative.

“It’s um – it’s good that you’re awake,” said Buffy.  “Oh.  I guess I said that already.  Earlier, I mean.”

“’S all right, love,” he said softly.  “Glad to be awake.” He looked down at himself, at the cuts that refused to heal, the gauze on his wrists.  The bones still showing a little too prominently.  “I look terrible,” he muttered.

“No you don’t,” she said quickly.  “I mean – you looked worse before.  When we first – when we found you.  You’re… a lot better now.”  She held up the thermos, jiggled it a little.  “You want some?”

“Could go for a mug, yeah,” said Spike.  “How bad off was I?  I don’t… well.  You can imagine, I don’t remember much.”

Whereas Buffy couldn’t forget – how wrecked he was, how desperately hungry, how utterly defenseless and vulnerable he’d been when they’d found him.  Spike, the Spike she knew… even at his lowest moments he’d always been able to defend himself from anything that got thrown his way, to fight back somehow, to adapt if nothing else.  The kind of sheer helplessness she’d seen just didn’t belong on him; it was… it was _wrong_ , a violation, somehow, of who he was.  Wrong that anyone should have been able to reduce him to that.

Buffy poured Spike a cup from the thermos, handed it to him.  Pulled the camp chair back around and sat, so he wouldn’t have to crane his neck to look at her.  “We could see all your bones,” she said finally.  “We could – we could see where your ribs were broken.”

Buffy looked away for a second.  Her eyes were _so_ not going to tear up.  They weren’t. 

Spike grimaced.  “Sounds nasty,” he said.  “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Not your fault,” Buffy said.  He was sorry?  _Not_ going to tear up…  “I just wish we’d found you sooner.  Or…” Or that she’d known earlier to look for him.  That she’d asked what those messages were about when she first got them. “Or something,” she finished lamely.

“Was wondering about that, actually,” said Spike.  “How you knew where to look for me.” He glanced down at his hands again.  “How you knew to look at all,” he said, barely above a whisper.  Looked up, searching her face, and said a bit louder, “Harris said you… he said that you didn’t know.  About me, that is.”

“I didn’t,” she said.  Swallowed.  “I thought – I thought you were d– that you were gone.  After Sunnydale.  And then I heard you died in LA, which was the first I ever knew you were there at all.  Th-this past year.”  And damn it, there came the tears welling up.  Buffy looked away, shut her eyes.  She wouldn’t let him see, wouldn’t let them fall.  Clenched her fists.  She wouldn’t ask why, either.

Wouldn’t let herself.

* * *

 

Oh, Buffy.

Spike’s heart hurt.  He hadn’t wanted to stay out of her life, but he’d been so sure that it was the right thing to do.  He was terrible for her; anytime he was around her, her life went to hell and it usually had something to do with him.  And besides, she’d moved on.  Rome had made that clear, hadn’t it?

It was starting to look like he might be wrong about that.

“Anyway,” said Buffy.  She swallowed, took a deep breath.  Seemed to be struggling to get the words out for some reason. “After I moved here – I was,” she paused, “I was in London – after I moved here I started to get these weird… messages, I guess.  Dreams and things.  Weird coincidences.” 

Well, that was certainly interesting.  He wanted to ask, but she was still talking.

Buffy opened her eyes, blinked rapidly.  She still wouldn’t look at him; he couldn’t blame her.  “So, we uh, consulted a psychic that works for Xander – actually she came to us – but, um.  That’s how we found out you were, that you were alive again.” She sniffed.  “I mean, undead.  Whatever.”

Spike lifted his hand to touch her, uncertain.  Would she want that from him, after all this time?  His fingers hovered in the air for a second, then he pulled them back, lowered his hand to rest on his stomach. 

He’d only wanted to spare her more pain, and it looked like he might have failed at that, too.

* * *

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Spike start to tip his head.  He winced, stopped. 

“How’s your head?” she asked.  Changing the subject.  Any other subject.  God, maybe she should ask him about the weather, after all.

“Nice thing about not having a pulse,” he said with a half-smile, “I don’t have to worry about a pounding headache – just the regular kind.  But a cracked skull can still hurt like a bitch, even without that.”

Buffy nodded, searching for something to say.  Ask about the weather, ask about the weather, ask about –

“So, er, you mentioned… messages?” he asked.  “Coincidences.  What sort of things did you mean?”

Damn.

“Oh, you know,” she replied.  “Slayer stuff. Weird things I’d overhear in people’s conversations.  All saying the same thing, over and over.”

“There were a lot of these messages, then?” he asked.

“Just the one,” said Buffy.  “Or, just two of them, I guess, if you want to be picky.  ‘Go to him” was one of them.  ‘He needs you’ was the other.  Arrange in whatever order you like.”  She rested a hand on her stomach, pressed in on the ache that was building there.  “Dreams with you in them, and Giles.  They made a lot more sense once we knew for sure… knew you weren’t dust.”  Heard her voice start to waver, swallowed hard. 

 _Why did you stay away?  What did I do wrong?_ But she knew the answer to that. 

_Everything, Buffy._

She felt her face contort, fought to recover a neutral expression as best she could.

Damn it, she was _not_ going to cry in front of him.  This was her fault, she didn’t need to inflict her pity party on him.

“Harris didn’t give me details – said it wasn’t his story to tell – but he…” Spike paused, seemed to be choosing his words carefully.  “He mentioned something about Giles being part of all this. Of what’s troubling you.”  Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand do that thing again – rise, hover, drop.  “Do you… Is there anything…?”

Was there anything he could do for her?   She almost laughed.

 _Don’t die again_ , thought Buffy.  _Don’t hide from me anymore.  Don’t tell me you don’t want me._

_Don’t leave me._

But she couldn’t bring herself to say any of that.  Couldn’t bear to hear the answer she knew he would give.  “You could bite Giles for me,” she offered instead.

“Heh,” Spike said.  Grunted, reached for his ribs.  “Ngh.  Don’t do that, love, laughing hurts just now.”

She smiled.  Watery but there.  “Sorry.”

She looked at her hands while the pain faded for him.  Couldn’t think of anything to say, so she just waited.

“So, er… care to tell us why your Watcher needs a fangy farewell?” he asked softly.

“He’s – not my Watcher anymore,” she said.  She was reaching for anger, trying to keep the tears back long enough for her to get out of here, but all she could seem to find was the hurt.  She pressed harder on her stomach.  Hated that his betrayal still made her feel like she’d been stabbed.  Gutted.

“How’s that, then?” Spike asked.

Buffy took a deep breath.  Felt it quiver in her chest.

 “Andrew knew,” she said, voice wobbling despite her effort.  “When I found out, he said he was sorry – for not saying anything – but he still knew.  That you were alive, this wh-whole time.” _Why did you stay away?_   “But Giles, he…” closed her eyes again.  Swallowed, hard.  Couldn’t look at him, didn’t want to see his face.  He was just going to look at her like she was an idiot, decide she was ‘carrot-top’ or ‘shirty’ or whatever, because she still cared after all this time when he’d moved on.  “Giles wasn’t sorry. H-he just said… said it was for my own good.”

She clenched her teeth, hard, on the sob that tried to get out.  Gripped the chair hard enough her knuckles were probably turning white.  Caught herself rubbing her stomach with her other hand, as if she could push the ache away that easily.

She could feel herself starting to shake. Damn it, she didn’t want to do this.

“H-he just went on,” she said, “about things ‘af-f-fecting my judgment’ and, and, ‘unhealthy obsessions’ and all this, this crap… like it was totally okay to just p-pretend you w-were dead, that whole time.  L-like it was okay to, to w-watch me go th-through… w-watch…” Her voice kept breaking and she couldn’t make it stop.  “Like e-everything you did, everything y-you gave us – gave _me_ – like it just – like it didn’t matter.”

Tears fell.

Damn it.

“L-like it was better that you were d–,” she started.  “Like it was… I trusted him,” she whispered, “and he kept th-that – kept you –”

Fingers on her chin.  When she didn’t yield to his touch, he reached up a little higher, to stroke the line of her jaw.  It was all she could do not to lean into that touch.  She was helpless to resist him as he turned her back to face him.  She couldn’t open her eyes.

She hated that her lip was trembling, like she was some kind of child.  He wouldn’t want to see this from her.  He didn’t want her anymore.

 “Oh, Buffy,” Spike breathed.  “I’m so sorry.”

She forced herself to look, tears streaming down her cheeks, expecting to see something like the Gentle Breakup Face.  I’m so sorry we can’t work out.  I’m so sorry but we’re over.  Instead what she saw was love, and compassion, pain for her pain.  Sorrow, and… she had to be imagining it… loneliness that matched her own.

“I mourned you,” she said, and then she couldn’t say anything else.  She couldn’t stop the tears from falling, and she covered her face with one hand to try and keep them away from him. 

Then he was gathering her into his arms as best he could, while she shook and keened.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whimpered, “I shouldn’t… you shouldn’t have to…”

“Shh,” he said.  She felt his lips in her hair.  “Shh.  Hush now.  Shh.”

“I’m sorry…”

“So’m I, love,” he murmured.  “Hush now…  So’m I.”


	24. Confession, Reunion

He couldn’t quite believe what was happening to him, here, in this moment.

When Spike had gotten caught by Figg’s spell, his mind had thrown this nightmare at him, right, one that showed him trapped in an endless fog, surrounded by nothing and no one.  Not so bad on the surface, yeah?  Except that Spike had been alone, and useless, and he’d hated it.  Worse, in his heart of hearts, Spike had dreaded facing the rest of his existence in exactly that state – alone, useless, with no one to care about and no reason for being.  No purpose.

No one who cared about him, either, but he’d gotten used to that over the decades.

Yeah, fine, Drusilla had come to him in that dream.  Yes, she had insisted to him that Buffy’s heart was calling out for his – for him – that Buffy needed him and none other to come to her, quick as he could.  “She needs you.  Go to her.”  Had even insisted to him that Buffy would come for him, despite every bloody thing that stood between them.  But until he’d actually woken up to see her looking down at him, Spike hadn’t quite been able to believe what his dream was telling him.

After all, escaping LA had made it clear that being alone and useless was a much more likely outcome than it was for him to be important to anyone’s plans.  Never mind his being necessary for anyone to be bloody happy and whole or any such rubbish.  Soul or no soul, bollixed prophecies aside, he was… expendable.  Replaceable.  Certainly, a woman like Buffy could easily have found someone to take his place in her life.  Spike had been convinced that she would have, by now.

Except…

“I mourned you,” she whispered to him.

She, Buffy, had mourned him.

Considering everything he’d been expecting to hear, that was a bit much for a bloke to take in, yeah?

Bloody sweet, balm to his soul and all, but still.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” he said.  No idea how much time had passed, but Buffy was sitting curled on the floor now, with her head leaned against the cot.  The way she was sitting, Spike could bury the fingers of one hand in her hair, and stroke her head softly with the other.  Draw a fingertip around the lovely shell of her ear.  Tears still dropped from her eyes now and again, but the worst of her storm seemed to be over for now.

She was so warm.

“The way you tell it,” he said, “you found out I was still kickin’ instead of getting flash-fried in the Hellmouth the way we all thought, and you’re furious at ol’ Rupes for keeping that a secret all this time.”  He reached under her to cup her chin, turn her to face him.  “Oughtn’t you to be angry with me, too, then?  After all,” he admitted, glancing away, “I kept me from you as much as he did.”

Buffy sighed.  “I wanted to be angry,” she said after a moment.  “And I might still get mad at you, once you’re healed up and I can kick your ass for you again.” She gave him this odd, sad little smile.  “But I can… I can sort of understand why you wouldn’t want to tell me you were back.  I mean.”  She looked down again, voice all wobbly in that way that gave him an ache in his chest.  “I mean I put you through a lot of… of crap. While we were together.  And I could see you wanting to… to put Sunnydale behind you.”  She swallowed, sighed.  “I can’t really be angry with you for that.”

He closed his eyes, stroked her hair.  She couldn’t possibly mean that she was willing to forgive him.

Her voice hardened. “But Giles doesn’t have that excuse,” she went on.  “I made the mistake of trusting him, after everything else he’s done over the years.”  She laughed bitterly, caught his eye.  “After he tried to have you killed.  Did you know he took me out on patrol that night, tried to keep me occupied with some Zen crap while Wood…?” She looked away again, sighed.  “So yeah.  I could kinda see it if you had decided you were just… over it all.  If you decided it was easier to just leave all of us behind forever.”

Behind her words, though, he could hear it.  “All of us” meant “Buffy”.  She blamed herself for his vanishing act.

“Oh, love,” said Spike.  “That’s not why I – that isn’t the reason at all, pet.  Or, I suppose in a way it is.”

Buffy looked up at him, confused.  “See, I thought maybe _you_ would want to leave all that behind.  That I would just remind you of times best forgotten.  God knows I – I hurt you often enough.  Tried to drag you into the dark, with me.  Tried to –” But he couldn’t say it.  Over a century of bloodshed, and the one thing he would never forgive himself for was a brief moment, one night, in a bathroom, where she had stopped him from actually finishing what he’d started.  “You deserve better,” he said instead.

To his surprise, Buffy snorted.  “Seriously,” she said, “that is really starting to piss me off.”  But she didn’t move from her spot except to burrow her head more deeply into the side of his hip, nuzzling his hand where it was buried in her hair.

So warm.

“People keep trying to decide for me, give me what they think I deserve,” she said.  “Whatever they think is best for me.  And okay, I get that people are looking out for me and they care, and they want what’s best, but at this point in my life it’d really be nice if I could have a little input into what _I_ think I deserve.  What I want.  I mean, I’m a little old to send to bed after supper so everyone can talk about me once I’m asleep.”  She looked up at him.  “You know?”

He smiled down at her.  Curled up like a kitten, she was, and he wanted to do nothing so much as pet her until she fell asleep.  The sigils on his palms were easier to ignore when he was touching her.  But then, it’d always been easier to ignore what hurt when she was with him.

“I understand, pet, but… have you considered I might also have been thinking of what I thought _I_ deserved?” he asked. “Or maybe, what I didn’t think I deserved?”

Buffy frowned. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Spike’s hands stilled, and to his surprise he found it difficult to speak the words out loud.  “I’m not enough for you,” he finally said. 

“That’s not true,” Buffy began, but he cut her off.

“I tried to drag you into my world, once,” he said softly, “but you were already there.  Of course the Slayer lives in the shadows, yeah?  But even at your darkest,” said William, “you were in the light as well.  I can only ever be in half of your world, I’m afraid.”

But she was sitting up now, pulling away and staring at him with wide eyes.  “Don’t say that,” she whispered.  “Please don’t ever say that.”

“Pet?”

“I need you in my life,” she said.  “The past year – without you – I may not have learned anything else this past year, but I’ve learned I need you.”

Spike closed his eyes.  Opened his mouth to speak, shut it again when he couldn’t find the words.

“I told you,” she said.  “I told you I wasn’t ready for you not to be with me, back before the… before we closed – before _you_ closed the Hellmouth,” she corrected herself. Stroked a hand along the outside of his leg, up and under the blanket, careful to keep away from the cuts there.  “And then I told you – um.  In the Hellmouth, before you… before you d– and you didn’t believe me.”  She looked down at her knees.  “I guess I never gave you reasons to believe me.”

He looked at her in disbelief.  She couldn’t be saying… could she?  But the tears were starting again, and she looked so… so small and lost…

Could she really have meant it?  Spike swallowed, hard.  Didn’t want to ask.  Had to.

“You… meant those words, love?”

She nodded.  Still looking at her knees.

“Still do,” she said softly.

It took him a moment for that to sink in, and then, in an instant, he was undone.  All his breath left him in a rush; he could feel the tears spring to his own eyes, and his hands started to shake.  He wound a lock of her hair through his fingers, unsure whether to laugh or cry.  Likely end up doing both, like the nancy boy he was underneath the Big Bad armor he wore.

‘Course, sitting there wearing only a blanket didn’t give him much armor to hide behind, so he had an excuse.

“You,” he started. Had nothing to finish it with. 

“I never thought…” he swallowed again, trying to keep control of his voice.  “Never dared hope.” He could’ve sworn he felt dizzy, and wasn’t that a weird sensation for someone who had no circulation.

Slowly, she pulled one hand up from where she’d curled it around her legs.  Reached into her hair and found his fingers.  Intertwined them with her own, dragged them down to rub his knuckles against her cheek.  She sighed, and he felt the breath ghost across the back of his hand.

God, she was so warm.  He could bask in her warmth till he dusted, and die a happy man.

Again, he didn’t want to ask, and again he was unable to stop himself.  The words just came out of his mouth.

“Buffy,” he said. “Could you…?”

She looked up at him, the ghost of a smile hanging about the corners of her mouth.

“Say it again?” he breathed. Tried to meet her gaze and couldn’t make himself do it.  Ponce.

Her face grew solemn as she shifted her weight on the floor.  Got up on her knees and leaned forward till he could feel the warmth coming off her, soaking into his bare skin.

Bask in her forever.

Buffy let go of his hand and brought her fingers up to trace his eyebrow.  A feather-touch along his cheek; her palm along the line of his jaw.  His eyes closed, and he nuzzled into her hand, helpless to stop himself.

One by one, she kissed his eyelids.  Sweet breath across his face, and he sighed in contentment.

Finally, she rested her face cheek to cheek with his.  Brought her hand up along the side of his face and stroked through his hair once, twice.

Her mouth was right at his ear when she said softly, “I love you.”

He trembled.

“I love you, Spike.  I love you, William.  Believe it.  _Please_ believe me.  I love you.”

Looked like it was his turn to weep.  Slowly, Spike dropped his head to her shoulder, burrowed his face into the crook of her neck, and let the tears come.

His arms came up around her waist, carefully, loosely, not wanting to crowd.  She forgot herself and pulled him into her embrace, not hard, but his ribs ground out an agonizing protest.  Sod ‘em, he thought.  Buffy loved him.  Of all people, _Buffy_ loved him.  Loved _him_.

Something inside him cracked apart as he let the realization sink in.  He’d been the last of Angel’s LA crew, the sole survivor of their battle, the only one to escape as the entire soddin’ city was pulled down into a bloody hell dimension.  He hadn’t let himself realize just what that meant, just how alone he’d been – how without hope under Figg’s binding – until now, this very moment.

He’d had no one.  Been more alone than he’d ever been in his entire existence as a vampire, with no hope of that changing… and then Buffy said she loved him, meant it, and he felt his whole world shift back into place.  Felt the ground coming together under his feet again.

His heart felt like it was breaking open and the tears were pouring out from deep within him.

Buffy just held him, moved so he could shift around his ribs and held him gently after that, letting his tears soak into her shirt.  Whispering “I love you” into his ear, breaking him open again and again until he was quivering uncontrollably.  Felt his heart empty itself of tears; felt her love filling it, bit by bit.

Felt her warmth inside him, now.

“Buffy,” he whispered, over and over.  “Oh, Buffy.  I love you so much.  I love you, Buffy.  I love you. Never stopped.  Never could.  I love you so much.”

God, she was so warm.


	25. Basking, Cutting

Eventually, Buffy had to pull away from Spike’s embrace, not because she wanted to but because her back was beginning to protest the awkward position.  Gently, she kissed him on the cheek, looked away while he composed himself.  He sniffled, and Buffy’s brain coughed up the random thought that vampires weren’t supposed to get runny noses.

“So, um… what do we do now?” she asked.

Spike knuckled his eyes clear and opened his mouth to speak, when her stomach growled to interrupt him.  He glanced at her through wet lashes, amused.

“When was the last time you ate something, pet?” he asked. “I’ve been knocking back the blood you’ve brought like it was twelve-year-old Scotch, but you look like you haven’t had a decent meal in days.”

“I’ve been eating,” she protested.  “Just… not yet today.  I overslept breakfast.”

“And I’m glad you’ve gotten the rest,” Spike said.  “But now, you should eat some lunch, and then we’ll talk about that purified knife your friend the witch left for us in the kitchen, yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Buffy.  “I just… I hate the idea of having to cut you.  After everything else you’ve been through lately.” _After everything I’ve already done to you_ , she thought.

“It will be all right, love,” he said softly.  Tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.  “But we’re not talking about it until you’ve had something to eat.  Something decent,” he added.

“Motherhood looks weird on you,” Buffy muttered, but she got up and headed inside.

* * *

 

When she came back out to the garage, kitchen knife wrapped in a clean dishcloth, Spike was laying down again, blanket pulled up to his chin, his eyes closed.  She thought at first he might be asleep, but when her foot shuffled against the concrete he opened his eyes and smiled at her so sweetly she thought her heart would break for him all over again.

“Did I wake you?” Buffy asked.

“No, love,” he said.  “Just basking.”

Buffy raised an eyebrow.  “Basking.  Cats bask, Spike.  In the sun.  Basking doesn’t work for vampires.”

“Sure it does,” said Spike, closing his eyes once more.  “Buffy loves me.”  His smile broadened, and Buffy found herself smiling back, even though he couldn’t see it.

“Dork,” she said.  Spike opened his eyes again, curious.  “I’m in love with a dork.”

“Mm,” said Spike.  Cocked an eyebrow.  “Is he bigger than me?”

Buffy snickered.  Came and sat in the camp chair next to him, knife on her lap.  Ran her fingers through his… ugh.  His still filthy hair.

“He is you,” she said.  “God help me.  I’m in love with you and you’re a dork.”

“Oi, first of all, ‘m not a dork, I’m a badass vampire who’s gone toe to toe with goddesses in my time,” he said, pushing himself upright again.  “Second – ow – if you want me to stop acting like a love-struck git you’ll have to stop sayin’ you love me quite so often.”  He looked away for a second, face falling a little.  “Although I imagine once the Scoobies get wind, I won’t have to worry about that, yeah?”

Buffy just shrugged.  “I don’t see how anything would change,” she said.  Could see the skepticism on his face.  “No, really,” she said.  “I mean, Giles would just try to kill you again – nothing new there.  Willow would be Willow, you know, all worried over whether I was ‘making good choices’, but basically supportive.  And Dawn would probably be too excited to hear you’re not dead to worry about us being an item.  Plus I’m pretty sure she thought we should get together years ago.”

“That was before,” Spike began.  Looked down at his hands.  “Before I –”

“And it’s her problem how she chooses to handle that,” interrupted Buffy.  “I left London and came here with a plan to finally grow up… or, like I told Xander, to at least grow out of needing Giles in my life anymore.  Ugh, that sounds like I’m breaking up with him, which is just creepy.”  She ran her fingers through her hair, pulled it back over her shoulders.  “And, okay, I’m probably going to fail miserably – Buffy is not famous for being all Maturity Girl – but I can at least let other people deal with their own damn issues, while I try and deal with mine.  Instead of everybody trading and thinking they should manage each other’s problems, and ignore their own, and – and never ever talk about anything that really matters!”

Spike looked her over for a moment.  Said finally, “Good for you, love.  Good for you.”  And Buffy felt something inside her relax at his words.  Shifted on the cot, wincing a little, and said, “Not sure how I feel about you sitting there all worked up with a blade in your hand, though.”

Buffy huffed a little laugh, looked down.  “Yeah, that’s just me distracting myself,” she said.  She grimaced, fidgeted in her seat.  “I hate the idea of doing this to you, Spike.  I’d rather talk about my feelings than do… this.  Which should tell you something.”

Spike smiled.  “How’s this, then – you and I work through these markings together, and whenever it gets too much we’ll take a break and have a natter about something emotionally harrowing instead.  Sound all right?”

“Whatever ‘harrowing’ means,” said Buffy.  She unwrapped the knife, took a deep breath and let it out.  “You know I’m great with the stabbing and the staking, but I’m pretty sure the Slayer package doesn’t include surgery in with the rest of the skills.”

“You’ll do fine, love,” said Spike.  “The writing… the magic makes it hurt already.  Like I told the witch.  They burn.  You can’t make it worse.  You’ll be shutting them off.  It’ll feel better, for me.  Might bleed a bit, might sting a little, but the magic will be gone, yeah?  They won’t hurt as much once you’re done.”

Buffy took another deep breath.  “Making it better,” she said.  “Making it better.  I can do this.”

“You can,” said Spike.

“Okay,” she said.  “Where do I start?”

* * *

 

Spike sucked in his cheeks as he thought it over.  “Witch said to do everything in reverse order.  Figg did my hands and feet last, so you’ll go there first,” he said.  “Reckon you should start with the right foot, in case there’s a flinch in my bad knee. Get the worst one over with first, yeah?”

He watched as Buffy made a face of her own.  Squeamish.  Not a look that belonged on a woman who could slaughter an entire pack of demons in one go, wading through their gore until the last one was destroyed.  It was kind of funny, really.

Well, okay, and he felt bad for her.  Tried to imagine what it would be like to hurt the one he loved, in order to make them better. 

Remembered Drusilla, when he’d first brought her to Sunnydale, and forced himself to find another topic.

“Okay, said Buffy.  “Here goes –” and she slipped the blade along the sole of his foot, quick and sure.  He hissed a bit in surprise, but the sting was nothing.

“I’m sorry!” she said.

“No,” said Spike.  “No need.  Just startled me, is all.  Feels…” he wiggled his toes experimentally.  “Feels fine.  Burning’s gone, just like that.”

“Really?” she asked him, eyes pained.  “You’re sure?”

“Positive, love,” he replied.  “And – yeah, I remember this now – when he put the seals on, they sort of… pulled me away from my body, like.  Made me weaker.  This… I can feel it, love.  Like I’m settling back in where I belong.”  He smiled at her.  “Now do the others quick.”

He could see her gain confidence as she took care of his other foot, and he held out his hands for her when she moved toward the head of the cot.  It was the same with them; a brief sting, a bit of blood before the cut closed itself, and a sensation of groundedness.  Of strength returning to his body.

Careful of his palms, he crossed his wrists behind her neck and pulled her in for a kiss.

“Hey!” Buffy twisted away from him, and for a second he was horrified.  Had he…? “Knife here, you… you dork.  Do you _want_ to get stabbed?”

She held the blade comically far out to one side, leaned in, and touched her lips to his, and he hummed contentedly.  “Love you, Slayer,” he murmured against her mouth.  Kissed her again, nibbled at her bottom lip.  Kind of hot, doing this with no hands just at the moment.

Buffy pulled away again, amused.  “And now you’re the one distracting me.  Quit that,” she said. “And… I love you too,” she added shyly, and he hummed again, gazed at her through eyes half-shut.  She giggled.

“Are you basking again?” she asked.

“Always,” he rumbled.  Blinked, leaned in to kiss her, but she ducked out from under his arms with a snort.  “Well it’s either that,” he said, “or complete disbelief and confusion, and I’d rather bask, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Fine,” she said, “you bask, I’ll make with the slicey.”  She waved the knife under his nose.  “Where to next?”

Spike sighed.  It was more fun trying to distract her – but then that may have been the magic talking, as his energy was anchored more firmly into his physical self.  Certainly doing something physical felt far more important to him just now than messing about with any bloody magic.

Oh, well.  Time for that later, he supposed.  Buffy loved him.

“Soul,” he told her.  “And water, if I remember right.  These marks, here.”  He gestured crosswise along his chest.  “They’re high enough, shouldn’t bother my ribs… he did them in two sections.  Start here, in the center, and go around to the back.”

“Okay,” she said.  Took a deep breath and he moved his arm up out of the way.

She cut.

Spike _shrieked_ and his body convulsed at the sudden, white-hot pain.

Where the seals on his hands and feet had only stung a bit, the inscription across his chest was excruciatingly, terrifyingly painful.  He’d been watching and thought he saw the marks flare bright red for a second before subsiding, but the pain the dying magic left in its wake had him gasping.  He’d arched and thrown himself backward on the cot, and now he lay writhing in sudden, shocking agony.

His knee and his side yelled at him to bloody _stop moving_ , but he couldn’t control the spasms if his life depended on it.

“Spike?  Spike!”  Buffy’s voice was deafening in his ears, pounding through his skull, and he threw his hands up to cover them.  The light overhead seared his eyes even through closed lids, and he groaned.

The scent of his own blood, of Buffy, of the sawdust in the garage, of the leftover filth from his time in the cistern, all assaulted his nose.  He jerked his head to the side, trying to escape the stench, trying not to breathe.

It was all he could not to throw the blanket off and lay there naked, the way it was rasping at his skin.  Like wearing steel wool, it was.

“Spike,” Buffy had started to cry.  He could smell her tears.

“Too much, too much,” he whispered.  He panted, clawing his way through the pain toward control.  “Water,” he said, “should’ve known – perceptions, senses…” he tried to look at her, reassure her, but it was all too bright and at a new wave of pain, his eyes rolled back in his head.  He threw one arm over his eyes, pressed his elbow down hard to block out the light.

He could hear Buffy’s heart pounding, and her breathing hitched as she cried.  “’S all right,” he whispered, “it’s just… all at once… hear everything, smell… everything… too bright…” He arched again, mouth falling open as the pain began to fade.  He let out a shuddering breath, through his mouth.  Sagged down into the cot, drained.

Caught his breath.  Tried to straighten out his bad leg, but it was having none of that from him.  “Nng… help me up, love,” he said.  Arm still flung across his eyes.  “Need to get the rest of it…”

“I don’t know if I can,” she said.  Softly, which he was bloody grateful for right then.

“You can,” he murmured.  “Have to.  Have to get it off…” Tentatively, he lowered his arm.  The light was still bright, but he thought he might be adjusting.  He squinted at her through the glare, tried to smile.

She didn’t seem to appreciate it.

“’S temporary, love,” Spike said.  “Promise.  Fading already… see?”

“Oh, God,” she whispered.  “I’m so sorry… I’m so…” Her breath hitched again and she looked away. But he watched as she screwed her eyes shut tight, gritted her teeth.  Visibly steeling herself for the next part.

“That’s my girl,” he said quietly.  She blew out another breath, and Spike felt the air scrape across his skin.  Wasn’t looking forward to the next set of cuts, but he saw no need to tell her that.  Hard enough for her as it was.

“We’ll take a break after this, yeah?” he said to her.  “Distract ourselves.  Emotionally harrowing conversation.”

“Yeah.  Yeah.  Okay.”  Buffy wouldn’t look at him as she lifted him, helped him sit up again.  “I… I still have the back to do on this side,” she said, “and then all of the other side.”  She moved around behind him, planning to draw the knife in one long arc from front to back.

“I know,” said Spike.  Turned his head a little; her breath in his ear was just that little bit too harsh.  “Let’s just… let’s get it over with, I’ll tell you about the past year, you’ll tell me something deeply disturbing about Giles and the Scoobies, life will be grand.”

Now that he knew what to expect, the rest of Buffy’s cuts across his chest weren’t quite so horrific.  They hurt like a bitch, and he couldn’t bite back a shout as she drew her line across the sigils again, but his sight didn’t seem to get any more sensitive.  Sounds didn’t grow even more painfully loud.

The garage still stank and he could tell he needed a shower in the worst way, but at least he didn’t think his sense of smell had picked up anything more revolting than it already had.

When it was over Spike sagged back against her, let her hold him up for a second while he got himself back under control.

“Well,” he said when he could speak again, “that was fun.”


	26. History, Demon

_“Well,” he said when he could speak again, “that was fun.”_

He felt Buffy go rigid behind him.  “Fun?” she squeaked.  “You call that – is this some vampire thing?”

“No,” Spike huffed a tired chuckle. “It’s a sarcasm thing.  Thought you’d recognize it.”

”Oh.”  Felt her shift, setting the knife to one side.  “Sorry.”

“No worries, love,” he said.  “You ready for that break yet?”

“God,” said Buffy.  “You mean you’re not?”

“I could pause, yeah,” he said.  Still leaned against her a little.  She was warm.  It was soothing.  Also he loved her and she loved him and wasn’t that a surprise that would take a while to really sink in.  “One emotionally harrowing conversation, as promised.”

“You didn’t promise,” she said.  Warm breath down his neck, still uncomfortable like ants on his skin.  “It was your idea.”

Spike sat up a bit, tried to turn and face her.  “Thought I owed you something,” he said softly.  “After being gone like that.  I didn’t know, love.  I really thought –”

She put a finger to his lips and he kissed it, unable to stop himself even if he wanted to.  “We covered that part already,” she said.  “And it’s okay.  I understand.”

“Do you?” he murmured.  Hated the pleading tone in his voice, but he couldn’t stop that either.

“We were both thinking basically the same thing,” she said, “or at least I was once I learned you hadn’t been dead this whole time.”  She chewed her lip for a second, wrapped her arms around his waist.  “Why don’t you tell me how that happened – how did you survive that?”  Felt her go stiff against him again.  “You have to know, if we had known that you made it, we would never have just left you there.  I wouldn’t have let them.  You know that, right?”

“Shh, love, I know,” he said.  “And as for how I survived – I didn’t.  Dusted right and proper, burnt up by the sun, there at the Hellmouth.”  He shivered a little, said, “I can still remember what it felt like.”

“God, I’m sorry,” said Buffy.  “Angel warned me – he said they didn’t know what the amulet did.  I should have pressed him for more information, but…” She rested her forehead on his shoulder.  “He’s dead now, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” said Spike.  “Yeah, he is.  I’m sorry.  I know you… I know I can’t take his place…”

“Spike, stop,” she said.  “You’re not taking anybody’s place.  You’re not some kind of… of substitute for Angel.  I don’t know any other way to say it than that.”

“You loved him,” said Spike.  “Don’t tell me you didn’t.”

“No,” said Buffy.  “No, I loved him, but… he was my _first_ love, though.  I… I outgrew him.  Even if I didn’t realize it right away.”  She leaned out to catch his eye.  “Did you ever have a first love?” she asked.  “When you were alive?”

Spike smiled.  “Cecily,” he said.  “We never would’ve… it would never have worked… but yeah.  Her name was Cecily and I was madly in love with her.  Or… I thought I was.  Looking back now…”

“It’s like that,” she said.  “Looking back now… I don’t know if I would have stayed with him much past a year or two – even without a curse to worry about.  But when I was sixteen?  Yeah, I thought he was the dreamiest.”  She laughed sadly.  “So yes.  If you’re asking – yes, I’m sad he’s gone.  And I’ll miss him.  We were… friends, I guess?  But you’re not replacing him.”  She kissed his shoulder, and he shivered again.  “There’s no way the two of you could ever substitute for one another.  You’re too different.”

“Load off my mind, there, sweetheart,” said Spike.  He sighed, looking at the marks on his hands.  “Sometimes it feels as if I’ve spent my entire existence as a vampire collecting Angelus’ leftovers,” he said.  “The ones he was finished with.  Even Drusilla was never completely mine, did you know that?”  He turned he hands over, looked at the backs of them, unmarred except for the gauze at his wrists.  “She was always obsessed with her daddy, as she called him.”  Paused again.  Said, his voice barely audible, “I loved her for a century and she was never really mine.”

“I’m sorry,” said Buffy.  “Um.  I have no idea what else to say to that,” she admitted.  “Can I ask you how you came back, instead?”  She ran fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he felt the tremor run down his spine at her touch.  “Where – do you remember where you went? How long you were there?”

“No,” he said.  “No, as far as I knew, no time passed at all between… between dying and coming back.  It was all the same moment, from my end.  What we figured out later was, I ended up stuck inside the amulet itself.  And then someone dug it out of the ruins – they tell me Sunnydale is a great bloody crater now?”  At her nod, he went on, “They dug it up, and mailed it to Wolfram & Hart, and when Angel opened the envelope, out I popped.  Only without a body.  Something like a ghost, only not.”

“Weird,” said Buffy.

“Very weird,” said Spike.  “And then one day someone mailed me a package, which I couldn’t open – I was walking through walls and all that, couldn’t touch anything – and when Harmony opened it for me there was a flash and I was solid again.  No idea how that worked.”

“Wait. Harmony?” she asked.

“Angel’s secretary,” grinned Spike.  “And terrible at it, too.”  His grin faded.  “Or at least, she was.  I don’t know what happened to her, after… Anyway, after that came the gigantic snow job that kept Spike in Los Angeles, and a bunch of other adventures that mostly went pear-shaped whenever they involved me.”

“So why did you stay?” asked Buffy.  “If it wasn’t going well for you.”

He looked at his hands again, shifted on the cot.  “Didn’t have anywhere else to go,” he said softly.  “And they… told me what I wanted to hear.  Or told me what they knew I’d believe,” he corrected himself, voice bitter.  “I admit it – they played me.  Manipulated me no end, till I didn’t know what purpose I had anymore.  Nor my own arse from a hole in the ground, I imagine.”

Buffy stroked the line of his shoulder, said nothing.  Waited.

Spike sighed.  “See – when I didn’t have a body, I tried again and again to go to you and couldn’t – kept getting yanked back to the law offices of evil.  Then by the time I was solid again, I was so messed about in the head that I really believed you were better off without me.  And there was supposed to be this prophecy, all to do with a Vampire With A Soul,” he waved his hand, as if the letters were spelled out in lights on a marquee, “and no one knew if it meant Angel or me – probably it was a hoax all along and they were snowing Angel too.”

He sighed again.  “Either way.  My being there threw a spanner in the works for Angel and his people, and he had enemies who would take whatever chances they could get to mess him about, and I fit in perfectly with their plans.  So they got to me.”  God, even a year later it still left a foul taste in his mouth to know how easily he’d been fooled.  “I made a perfect pawn and they used me like one.”

Behind him, Buffy sighed too.  “Sounds like my thing with Giles,” she said.  “The manipulating part, anyway.”

“Maybe, yeah,” he said.  There was a story he wanted to hear more about, but…

“But you have a body now,” she said, “and we need to fix it.  And I’m still new to this whole emotions and talking thing, so – has this been enough harrowing and stuff for you?” 

He smiled.

Buffy leaned out again so he could see her.  “Ready to do the next part?” she asked.  Voice all nervous and tentative.

Spike nodded, winced as the motion jarred his injured head.  “Yeah, love,” he said.  “Yeah, let’s get on with it.”

* * *

 

Buffy took another breath and let it out slowly, noticed Spike shiver as her breath played across his back.  “Okay”, she said, “what the heck was going on with that first set of marks?  You said something about water – I take it you’re not thirsty?”

“Right,” said Spike.  “The four magic elements.  Earth, air, fire, water.  And Figg connected the soul in with the water part.”

“Okay, so the element had something to do with you,” she shuddered, “with the way you reacted, just now?”

“That’s right,” he said, “water is about, oh, dreams and subconscious stuff.  Intuition.  I guess it’s about perception, too, because when Figg did it, he put the cord over my eyes and I lost everything, sight and sound and smell.  When you took it off…”

“All that came back,” Buffy guessed.

“Got it in one,” said Spike.  “Only, just now when you took the marks off, I thought I could already see and hear and all that just fine, so when they came back again, all hitting at once like that was too much.  I got – no laughing, now – I got too sensitive for a bit.”

Buffy smiled.  Of course he’d worry about not looking manly enough for her, or something stupid like that.  “Are you sure you’re better now?” she asked.  Moved to the camp chair again, now that he could sit up on his own.

Spike shifted his shoulders a bit, not quite a shrug.  “It’s not as… intense as it was,” he said after a moment.  “Everything is still sharper, yeah, but I’m getting used to it again.”

“Okay,” said Buffy, “what element comes next and what should we look for this time?”

“Fire,” said Spike.  Drew a line with his fingertip along the marks that were scrawled on his body, from throat to… well, to some point hidden beneath the blanket and she could probably guess exactly how far down they actually went.

“And Figg put the demon in with that, too,” he went on.  “As for what may happen… fire is about creating and destroying, about change… but I guess in a person it’s mostly about appetites.  What you want.  What you desire.  You want something badly enough, you create it, or you destroy or change something else to get it.”

Buffy thought about it for a minute.  “So… what,” she said, “we should have lots of blood ready to go for you?”

Spike smiled at her – a smile she hadn’t seen in close to two years.  The last time they’d slept together.  “Or lots of something else,” he suggested, looking her up and down.

She turned her head away for a second so he wouldn’t see the way her eyes nearly bugged out of her head.  “Um…” she started.  “Should we…” but no, that wouldn’t work either.  She looked around for the belts they’d used on him before, but it looked like Xander had put them away once he was sure Spike wasn’t going to vamp out on them again.

Great.

“Spike, I –”

“Slayer,” he said fondly.  “You already know what my demon wants, and you’ve already seen me when I wanted it mo– oh.” His eyes widened, and he looked tortured.  Horrified.  “Oh,” he said again.  “You think I might – that I could –” he swallowed hard. “Buffy, do you think we should pin me back down?”

Oh, God.  She’d been thinking of him vamping out and losing control of his hunger – she hadn’t thought of the other possibility.  Her mind flashed back to that awful night in the bathroom when everything had gone so tragically wrong.  Flashed again to a basement not long after that, where Spike, mindlessly killing under the First’s influence, had somehow stopped himself from attacking and draining her.

She ducked her head, fighting back yet another round of tears.  She was getting thoroughly sick of the damn tears.

Made up her mind.

“No, Spike,” she said softly.  “I – you said… that night, you said trust was for ‘old marrieds’,” she said.  “And once before that, you asked me if I trusted you and I said never.”  She looked up at him, at his eyes, so haunted by what he’d almost done.  “We were both wrong,” she said, putting her hand on his.  “Love – for me anyway – if I didn’t trust you I don’t think I’d be able to love you.  And I was wrong to say I’d never trust you, because I do.”

He looked away from her quickly, and she had the feeling it was his turn to hide tears from her.

“You should probably still lay back down, though,” she said.  “I mean… if you’re worried… that’ll make it harder, since it’s kind of a pain for you to get up and down on your own.  Right now.”  She shrugged.  “And either way it’ll be easier for me if I have a straight line to – to cut along.”

“Buffy, are you sure about this?” he asked.  Laid himself down on the cot, every movement painful and slow.

“You stopped yourself from attacking me that night, Spike,” said Buffy.

“After you knocked me into a wall!” said Spike, stricken.  He started to tremble.  Ducked away from her when she reached for his face.

“I only had to push you away _once_ ,” she said.  “You could have come at me again, and you didn’t.  And that was before you had a soul.  After that?  Even the First couldn’t make you hurt me.”  She reached out again, and this time he held still, frozen in place and shaking as she stroked his cheek with her hands.  “I trust you, Spike.”

“Oh, God, Buffy,” he breathed, eyes closing, overwhelmed.  Nuzzled into her hand.  “I don’t deserve you.”

“Too bad,” said Buffy, “’cause you’re stuck with me.”  Surprised, he let out another little huff of laughter, and while he was distracted she drew the blade down his body in one long, smooth stroke.  Flipped the blanket back to expose him.  The sigils went all the way to the top of his pelvic bone, stopping right at the hairline just above his cock.

Spike rolled his head back and let out a shout that turned into a roar as his demon came forward.  Along with his usual game face and golden eyes, she was surprised to see the tips of his fingers crook and the nails lengthen into talons – she’d only seen that once before, in her dream with Drusilla, under the rubble of Figg’s collapsing shed.  Spike curled his claws into the edges of the cot, snagging the fabric as he roared again, the sound dying away to an angry rumble, deep enough she could feel it vibrating in her own chest.  He looked at her, and his lip curled in a leer, one fang glistening as his tongue curled up and around.  Bent one knee and started to lean forward, and she saw that he was already growing hard, his cock twitching as she glanced down and away.

Okay, that was a little unnerving.

But he didn’t lunge for her.  Didn’t bare his fangs and snarl.  Just sat up, slowly, eyes locked on hers and glowing as they caught the light.

“I can hear your heart, love,” said Spike.  Voice deeper than she remembered it, the way it sounded when they were in bed.  Seductive.  Wanton. “How it pounds for me… makes me think of the other times I’ve heard you like that.  That pounding.  The beating.  The blood roaring in your veins.  For me.  Because of me.”

He leaned in and Buffy froze as he nuzzled her ear, sniffed at her hair.  “Do you know how long it’s been for me, pet?” he asked her, voice soft and deep in her ear.  “How long since I’ve had any kind of a shag at all?  I’ve only had it once in the past year – had to make do with Harmony and she tried to eat me.  I know you’ve at least had the Immortal… saw you, in Rome.  Saw the way you danced.  Your ass.”  One taloned hand came up, drew slowly down the front of her shirt.  Needle sharp claws scraping along her skin through the fabric.  “Your breasts.  I love the way you dance.  Even when it was for _him_ , I loved watching you.”

Buffy swallowed, didn’t move.  He started licking the side of her neck, little flicks of his tongue, tasting, teasing, and her eyes drifted shut.  She took a shaky breath, said, “I never slept with the Immortal.”

“No?”  He tasted the hollow of her throat, brought his other hand up to move her shirt out of the way, licked and nibbled along her collarbone.  The pinpricks of his fangs, so close to her throat… she swallowed harder when he spoke again.  God, his voice.  “The two of you never fucked?” he asked.  Purred, really.  “I saw the way you danced… you never spread your luscious thighs for him?  Never let him taste you the way I have?”  The hand at her front slid lower. Clawed fingertips dipped into the waistband of her jeans, scratching along just below her navel.

Buffy had to stop this.  Didn’t want to.  She turned her head inward, moving his mouth away from her collarbone.  It put her own mouth right by his ear when she said, “I didn’t want to be just another notch in his bedpost.”

His whole body shuddered in reaction, a reaction she knew and hadn’t realized how much she’d missed.  He changed form slowly as his golden eyes rolled back in his head, the talons on his hands the first to go.  He nuzzled behind her ear again, and she actually felt the ridges of his face draw back and shift, felt his fangs retract and convert back to human as he nibbled the edge of her ear, the sensation going from pinpricks and tingles to blunt and gentle, tender.

“God, Buffy,” he whispered, “want you so much.”  Rested his forehead on her shoulder.  Dragged the blanket up to cover his lap.  “’M sorry.  Can’t stop wanting you.”

“It’s okay,” she murmured.  “It’s mutual.”  His head came up in surprise, blue eyes searching hers in wonder.  “It is,” she said, “just… not right now.  Okay?”

Watched as Spike swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, taking a breath and letting it out with another shiver and a little wince.  He straightened, put a hand to his ribs.  “No, not now,” he said after a moment.  “Buffy?  You’re –”

“I’m sure,” she said.  “I’m done holding myself apart from you over stupid things like, like wondering what other people will think.  The Scoobies.”  She looked down for a second, met his eyes again.  “I thought you were dead, Spike.  Now that I’ve got you back?” She shook her head.  “Told you.  You’re stuck with me.  I guess that means all of me.”

Watched as his eyes grew hot, a golden reflection in their depths for the blink of an eye.  He put one hand on the back of her neck, but stopped when she thought he would pull her in for a kiss.

“Spike?”

“I wouldn’t stop with just one kiss, Buffy,” he said with a rueful smile.  “Barely hanging on as it is.  Mustn’t tempt myself more than this.  Already bad enough, just sitting with you.”

Yeah.  Time for another break.

“Would it help,” she asked, “if I told you seeing Carlo – the Immortal – was Giles’ idea?”  She sat up straight, scooted her chair back away from him and his wandering hands.  “Or should I just tell you I need to pee?”

Spike blinked at her, surprised and exasperated, then started laughing as she blushed.


	27. Speaking, Silencing

After a few minutes alone in the garage, Spike was able to get his demon and his appetites mostly under control.  It helped that Buffy had been kind enough to reheat his thermos of blood while she was gone, and now he sat sipping contentedly and watching her as she sat down.  “So tell me,” he said, “what that wanker Giles thought he was doing dictating your love life.”  Took another taste from the mug.  If he couldn’t satisfy one hunger at least he could take care of another.  “He really told you to go out with the sodding Immortal?”

“Well, not quite,” admitted Buffy.  “He wanted me to ‘move on’ – basically get over you – and suggested that I go out.  And when I say suggested, what I mean is guilt-tripped.  My friends needed me at my best, Dawn was worried, blah blah blah.  He tried the ‘you would have wanted me to be happy’ line exactly once, and I almost made him severely regret it.”  She sighed, dragged fingers through her hair.  “Carlo was… charming.  That’s something he’s definitely good at.  And not a vamp, but in the know about vampires and demons and everything else.  So I didn’t have to hide what I was.”

“He’s not a vamp?” said Spike.  Raised an eyebrow.  Wanker had the instincts of one.  “Always thought he was.”

“You’ve never met him then,” said Buffy, “or you could tell.  Besides – do you really think I’d try to get over you by dating the first other vamp to come along with a pretty face?”

Spike bit his lip, looked away.  “’M not _pretty_ ,” he muttered.

“You did, didn’t you!”  Buffy’s eyes were wide when he looked at her sideways, cautiously.  “Okay, I should either be really pissed that you think I’m that much of a ho, or else really sorry that you think that badly of yourself.  God, Spike.  You got _a soul_ for me.  Did you think I’d just ignore that and find some other soulless vamp to – to take to bed or something?”

“Knew I didn’t stand a chance with you,” mumbled Spike.  “By the time we left for Rome I was convinced, yeah?  Seein’ you with that git… figured he was just proof I was right.”

“The only appeal Carlo had for me,” said Buffy softly, “was that he was charming, and he didn’t do anything to remind me of you.”  Looked away as she went on, “Because that would have hurt too much.  He’s… I don’t know what he is exactly, but after so long alive he’s gotten very bored and he’s always looking for the next thing to come along and entertain him.  And I think for him, dating a Slayer was – well, I’m sure he thought I would have been entertaining.  But like I said, I wasn’t interested in being the newest addition to his collection.  It was kind of icky to think about.”

Spike couldn’t help smiling at her words.  “Icky.  Is that right?”

“Don’t make fun,” she said.  “You’re the one who uses words like shirty.  Oh, and speaking of souls, I have a question for you.”  She fidgeted with her hair, said, “So when we did the fire part, just now, your demon was… kinda obvious.  But when we did the part for water – where was your soul?”

Spike raised his eyebrow at her, sardonic. “It’s not like I have a game face for my soul.  Start glowing or whatever.”

Buffy snickered.  “No, I guess not.” 

“Soul’s still here,” he said.  Reached out, traced a circle on her leg with one lazy fingertip.  “Soul’s the reason I can talk about the Immortal without trying to knock his memory right out of your head with my tongue.”  He looked up at her through his lashes, smile widening as he watched her blush.  “Being a bit more serious, soul’s the reason we can bring up Angel, or even Cecily.  All that emotional stuff.  Soul’s good at it.”

“You always were, too,” said Buffy.  “I mean, you were always honest, even when it got you in trouble.”

“I’ll give you that,” Spike said.  Smiled ruefully.  “Just, without the soul I didn’t always understand… oh, compassion and the like.  Feeling what the other person felt.  Like – and here’s a fond memory – telling you the little soldier boy you were dating was visiting a suck house.  I wanted you to know.  Never occurred to me it would hurt you to find out.”  He gave a kind of shrug without moving his shoulders, twitching an eyebrow and tilting his head a little.  “Just now, though, with the spell – getting hit by all my senses at once, overwhelming like that, sort of hid the soul part of it, that’s all.”

“Makes sense,” she said.  Dropped her hand over his, stopping his movements on her thigh.  “So we have air and earth still to take care of, right?”

“Yeah,” said Spike.  “Nothing fancy with them, no demon or soul or anything else mixed in that I know of.  Should go pretty straightforward.”

“Okay,” said Buffy.  “Which one’s first, what does it do, and what set of marks am I looking at?”

Spike chuckled a little, reached for his ribs.  “What’ve I said about making me laugh?” he asked.  “Air is first.  Upper arms, upper legs, here – nothing past the elbows or knees, that’s all earth.”

“Okay,” she said.  Watched as she fingered her knife nervously.

“Air is about talking and communication, but also thought, memory, intellect, that sort of thing.  As for what to expect,” he said, “maybe I’ll suddenly get smarter, that’d be nice.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, smiling.  “Or maybe you’ll just start talking and I won’t be able to get you to shut up.”

“Nothing new there, then, yeah?” Spike scowled at her, even though he knew she’d be able to see his heart wasn’t in it.  He was just relieved to see that she wasn’t still  going off her nut about having to cut on him like this.  Better, she wasn’t still broken up with guilt and sorrow and all the rest of it.

They’d had quite the busy day together, between one thing and another.

Spike lay back down and with her help got his arms up over his head, revealing all the sigils up and down their length.  Curled his fingers round the cot frame and braced himself.

Despite that, the choking sensation took him by surprise, once she began.

* * *

 

Buffy heard Spike’s breath hitch, then stop, when she made the first mark on his skin.

“Spike?” she asked, but he just squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, shook his head.  Closed his eyes again.  He looked like he was in pain.

Well, of course he was, she’d been slicing him apart all afternoon.

She made the second cut on his other arm, and he exhaled sharply, his mouth gaping open as he inhaled.  “You okay?”  He didn’t say anything, just nodded, eyes still shut.

Buffy moved down the cot toward Spike’s legs, pushing the blanket back to reveal the inscriptions there, bracing his bad knee gently with her free hand.  One deep breath in, and then a long, slow slice down the top of his thigh, listening to Spike’s breath catch – she never understood why he did that when she knew he didn’t have to – hearing him swallow and let out a tiny cough as she drew the blade along.  Then it was done and she was ready for the next leg.

Not too cool with the fact that she was getting good at this, though.

She managed to fold the blanket so it wouldn’t get too bloodied, yet still covered his groin enough that no one had to be too embarrassed.  Okay, so that she wouldn’t be too embarrassed.  Buffy was pretty sure Spike was incapable of feeling anything like shame, at least where his body was concerned.

Then the last cut was complete, just one more element to go and they could stop… except that Spike was breathing again, his mouth moving, speaking without stopping, a steady murmur she could just barely hear, low and insistent.  She leaned in, held her own breath to hear him better.

“…the way you came for me, never told you, never told you I missed you every day, never told you I was afraid for you, need to tell you, need to tell you about the dreams, nightmares, need to tell you about the messages, go to her, she needs you, don’t know why, don’t know yet, need to ask you why you need me, need to tell you about being alone, alone, I was the only one, no one left, need to tell you the hell, about the void, empty, no one there… your family, your friends, never told you the envy, never told you the way you belong, you belong, you have them, need to tell you not to walk away, not to close them out, need to tell you to talk to them, communicate, air is communicating, Buffy…” Spike opened his eyes partway, managed to focus on her, his hands still tightly gripping the cot frame.

“Buffy,” he said, never stopping the flow of words,” ‘m sorry Buffy, can’t make myself stop, the element, can’t stop, ‘m sorry, need to tell you I’m sorry, never told you how sorry, never told you thank you, never told you when I hated what you did to yourself, never told you that you deserved better friends, need to tell you, they love you, they don’t understand, need to tell you they don’t own you, need to tell you caring, caring, not the same, they’re not entitled to you, need to tell you to talk to them, communicate, air is communication, talking, need to tell you to talk to them, don’t, don’t take, need to tell you not to take them for granted, need to tell you to keep yourself, don’t give over to them, don’t give away that power, caring, they don’t have a claim, they don’t have that right, need to tell you not to give that away, never told you, never told you… they don’t… Buffy,” he was struggling for breath now, “can’t stop, the air, the air letting free… temporary, Christ I hope so, need to tell you that… need to tell you…”

So Buffy did the only thing she could think of to stop him, and leaned in and kissed him.  Could have covered his mouth with her hand, but it wouldn’t have halted the flow of words, only trapped them inside him.  So she kissed him, and felt his lips still moving under hers and it made her toes curl and her eyes prick at the same time, worry and lust a strange combination in her belly.  She kissed him harder and he tipped his head toward her, bared his throat, made this little pleading sound under her, and she slipped her tongue inside his mouth, just barely, teasing his upper lip, flicking the roof of his mouth just behind his teeth.

The cot creaked.  Buffy glanced up to see Spike tightening his grip on the frame, the marks on his palms oozing dark blood, gauze wrapped around each wrist, his knuckles white with the strength of his hold.  Glanced down to see his hips rocking, ever so slightly, held back by his injuries, tiny little thrusts against the blanket, his cock and belly up to his navel pretty much the only thing covered.

God, it had been a long time.

When he stopped making sounds and started kissing her back, she pulled away, trying not to shake too obviously.  He was silent, staring at her through heavy-lidded eyes, lips swollen and wanton.  Panting shallowly.  Hands still up over his head.

Possibly the hottest thing she’d ever seen in her life, and she had to make herself stop kissing him.  She smiled at him, couldn’t help the way her mouth curled up in one corner. 

“Better?” she asked him.

He swallowed, eyes widening.  “That was… that was cruel,” he said finally.

“Effective, though,” she said.  “Told you I’d have to make you shut up.”

His look of disbelief shifted through annoyance to lust, and he leered at her for a second, eyes hot once again.  “When I can get up off this cot,” he said, still breathless, “you and I are going to have a discussion.”

“Well,” she said, “air is supposed to be about communication, right?”  She stopped as he grinned, bit her lip for a second.  “Speaking of.  When we’re finally done with these element things, I want to ask you about – some of what you said.  Just now.  The dreams – messages and stuff.”

“Yeah,” said Spike.  Swallowed again, got himself calmed back down.  Buffy bit her lip, a little embarrassed to have teased him like that, twice now.

“Yeah,” he said again.  “We’ll do earth, and if I’m still up for it, we’ll talk.  Whatever you want, love.”

“Oh goody,” said Buffy.  “More harrowing emotional conversation.”

“Only because you asked, pet,” said Spike. 


	28. Pain, Comfort

Removing the sigils for earth turned out to be a bit of a surprise for them both.

Spike still hadn’t let go of the cot frame above his head, not only to make the marks easier for Buffy to reach but also because, as he explained, moving his arms even a little strained his ribs painfully.  Buffy figured he was already in enough pain without adding that to the mix.

Since she was already sitting near his legs, Buffy drew her first line through the shin of Spike’s bad leg.  She was expecting to brace his leg in case he flinched.  If she had to guess, he was probably expecting a sting and some blood.  Pretty sure neither of them were expecting Spike to kick Buffy in the chest, broken kneecap and all, nor for the sigils to flare red as she sliced through them to negate their magic.

Spike shouted in shock and pain as the knife first went into his skin, screamed when he kicked out from reflex, then groaned in agony as his leg flopped back onto the cot, bent awkwardly, the tape across his knee starting to come loose along one edge. 

Buffy picked herself up from the floor, eyes wide.  “Spike?  God, Spike, I’m so sorry!”

When he could speak again, shaking with pain, all he said was, “Not your fault, love.”  Swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, eyes shut.  Buffy could see tears leaking out the corners of his eyes when he blinked them open.  “Not your fault.”

“The marks – they glowed red for a second.  Like, they flashed or something,” said Buffy.  “And I think they did that for the soul, too.”

“Had to guess –” Spike stopped, eyes open wide and unfocused, “If I had to guess – beginning and ending – extra energy.”  His belly heaved for more air to speak, and he swallowed again.  “Hurts the same as the soul did – the water – too.”

“I hate doing this to you,” said Buffy, tears burning in her own eyes as she watched him struggle.

“Can’t be helped,” he rasped. “Earth is – body – physical, touch – stubborn, determination – nng. Gonna feel it either way.”

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked, chewing her lip.

“Straighten my knee out?” he asked.  Shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, lips pressed together in a thin white line.

“We’ve established I’m no doctor,” she murmured.  Gently, cautiously, Buffy rotated his thigh to face up, bracing his knee the entire time.  Little by little she lifted his foot until the joint was straightened out, then she lowered the whole leg back down until it was resting completely on the cot once more.

“Better?” she asked.

Spike didn’t speak, but he nodded his head once she was done.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.  Gulped back tears.  “Is there anything else?  Should we take a break?”

“No,” Spike said.  “No break.  Not yet.  Just – maybe distract me.”

“I can’t kiss you and cut you at the same time,” said Buffy.

Spike grinned.  “I could teach you something about that,” he said.

Buffy choked.  “Moving on,” she said, “here – get ready for the next one.”  This time she put her weight against him and drew the knife as quickly as she dared from knee to ankle.  Spike shouted again as the runes flared red, tried to writhe and squirm away from her, but she got the cut drawn and watched as the glow dimmed and went out.  Her cut oozed more dark blood – Spike was smeared with it from the neck down – but as she watched, she thought the cuts from the writing may have closed up a little.

Spike’s face was contorted in pain, clearly trying to hold in another shout.  Right, she thought.  Distractions.

“Did I hear you right?” she asked him.  “When we were finishing air.  That you got those messages too – go to her, et cetera?”

Spike exhaled sharply, breath hitching.  “Yeah,” he said.  “For about – month, while I was – getting out of LA and then later – in Chicago.”

Buffy stilled.  “I… only got messages for a few days,” she said.  She gestured at his injuries, at him stretched out on the cot, too-thin face lined with pain.  “And it’s pretty obvious why you needed me to come get you.  But… I mean… a month? I only found out you were still around, like, two weeks ago.”

“Dunno, pet,” he said.  “Wanted to ask why you thought you needed me.”

Buffy didn’t say anything at first.  “Well,” she started.  Stopped.

“Go on,” he said softly.  Worked one hand free of the cot frame to touch her knee.

“With you gone,” she said, “and with all the other Slayers around… it’s like.”  She sighed.  “Like I didn’t have a point, anymore.  I’m not The One and Only Slayer, so what do I do?  This past year, training the other Slayers we’ve found, has felt like, like make-work, or something.  Like I’m just taking up space.  And before, when I had doubts like that, I had you.”  She looked up at him, a half-smile on her face.  “Even when we were enemies I still had you for that.  Hard to question what I’m doing and why when I’ve got the Big Bad threatening everyone I care about.”

“Sweet of you,” said Spike.

Buffy moved the chair again, up near his head.  Took his hand in her own.  “I try,” she said.  “Brace yourself.”  Gripped his hand hard and drew the next line along his forearm. 

The sigils flared, and Spike yelped in surprise and pain.  “Son of a bitch!”  Tried to jerk away, but Buffy was stronger, and held him fast.  “Damn it, woman!”

“Tell me about your dreams,” she said quickly.

“Dreams,” he gasped. “Ah.  Hurts.  In my dreams – it’s the battle.  In Los Angeles.”  He shuddered, gulped, caught his breath.  “Only sometimes they change to the nightmare.  Sometimes not.”

“What’s the nightmare?” asked Buffy.

“The void,” he said quietly, after a pause.  “Nothing.  No one around.  No fighting, nothing trying to kill me.  I’m alone.”  Opened his eyes, looked up at her.  “Don’t say anything,” he said.  “Not to Harris.  Not to anyone.  All right?”

Buffy nodded.

“That’s my nightmare,” he said softly.  “That’s my hell.  To be alone.  Useless… pointless.” He turned his head away, looked at the wall for a moment.  “You know why I survived that battle when no one else made it?” he asked.

“Tell me,” she murmured.  Squeezed his hand, gently this time.

“Wasn’t important enough for the Senior Partners to chase down,” he said.  Looked back at her, searching her face as he told his story.  “That’s what I was, all last year.  The annoying hanger-on, the relative who comes to visit and won’t go back home.  Not worthy of you – let me finish,” he said when she started to shake her head.  “Not necessary enough to keep around, not useful enough to send somewhere, except to get me out of their hair.”

He closed his eyes.  “I carried a soddin’ clipboard, Buffy.  They threw me at Illyria when she first showed up, told me it was to test her powers.  Thought I wouldn’t figure out it was because they didn’t want anyone they cared about to get hurt.”  Opened his eyes, gazing off into memory, sad.  “I was the expendable one.  That’s my nightmare.  I’m surrounded by fog with nothing to do, no reason to be, and no one even knows I’m gone, or cares, or comes looking.”

Buffy rubbed her thumb across his knuckles, waited till he came back from his thoughts and looked at her again.  “I came looking,” she said.

Spike blinked back tears, looked away again.  Said nothing.

She brought his hand up to her lips, kissed the back of it, rubbed the knuckles along her cheek.  Said, “As soon as I knew that my messages weren’t just wishful thinking?  That you were alive – undead, whatever – that you needed help?  Spike – William – I want you to know, I dropped everything.  Not that I have a lot to drop right now, but still.”

He shivered, and Buffy couldn’t tell if it was pain, cold, or emotion that shook him.  Tremors ran down his frame.  One tear out of the corner of his eye.

“You can ask Xander,” she went on.  “These past two weeks – finding out you hadn’t been gone after all, hearing from Giles that you’d only really died about a month ago – I was a wreck, Spike.  I couldn’t stop thinking that if I’d known, if I could have gone to you before, maybe you…”  Her turn to look at her lap, blink back tears.  “Maybe I wouldn’t have lost you a second time.  And it was,” she insisted, “it was _exactly_ like losing you the first time.  Like going through all of that all over again.  I couldn’t just go, ‘oh well, already dealt with this, my timing was off was all, no big’ – it was like those first days after Sunnydale, all over again.”

“I’m sorry, love,” said Spike.  “That you had to go through all that.”  Shivered again.

Buffy shrugged, sniffed.  “You’re here now,” she said.  Spread the blanket out, pulled it up to cover his waist.  “Anyway, the worst part was that I’d trusted people who screwed me over, again.  Already told you about that, though.”

“Is that why you’re not talking to anyone?” he asked, voice hoarse.  “Xander mentioned something, didn’t give details.”

Buffy sighed, fidgeted with the hem of the blanket.  “Let me do your other arm and I’ll tell you,” she said.

“All right, yeah,” he said.  “Best get it over with, I s’pose.”

Buffy kissed his fingers and set his hand down to rest on his stomach.  Shifted her chair once more, up and around the head of the cot.  Spike was still hanging onto the frame, so she gripped his hand firmly, and drew the final cut with the purified blade.

Every sigil on his body and arms flared red at once, and Spike screamed, arching his back in pain.  When the glow winked out, he sagged back, visibly exhausted.  Moaned a little.

“Spike?” Buffy leaned in close to hear him.  Spoke softly, voice shaking.  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

His eyes fluttered open.  He seemed to have difficulty focusing on her and she moved back to make it easier for him.  “No, love,” he murmured.  “Pain’s gone.  All the burning, the magic.  ‘S all gone.”  He swallowed, drew breath slowly.  “Broken bones still hurt,” he said, eyes drifting closed again, “but the rest of it’s gone.  You did it, love.”  He sighed softly.  “Did it,” he breathed again.

“Are you,” Buffy began, “do you still want to talk?  Or should I let you rest instead?”

Spike smiled sleepily, eyes still closed.  “Both,” he said.  “Come lie down with me.  ‘M cold again.  Talk to me and keep me warm.”  Blinked once, eyes drifting wearily across her face.  Shivered.  “Please?”

Buffy frowned a little.  “Shouldn’t you be, I dunno, stronger or something?” she asked.  “Now that earth is done – I mean, you said it’s related to the physical stuff, right?”

Spike finally let go of the cot frame, dragged his arm down to rest across his belly.  Dark blood smeared across his torso as he reached for the blanket.  “Maybe, yeah,” he said.  “’S just, getting rid of that burning… bloody magic… the relief is just – making me drowsy.”  He smiled again.  “Like a hot bath.”

“Which you need,” muttered Buffy.  Set the knife down on the side table.  Finally.  Turned so she didn’t have to keep looking at him upside down, ran her fingernails through his hair.  He sighed blissfully.  “What were we talking about?”

“Your friends,” he said.  Slurring his words a little.  “Why you’re avoiding them.  You mustn’t do that, love,” he said.  “Don’t take them for granted.”

“I’m not,” she said, “I just – I don’t know how many of them were with Giles in the whole keep-Buffy-in-the-dark thing.  And I’ve been too upset to really deal.” She sighed heavily, and her breath across his skin made him shiver again.

“You’re not laying next to me,” he said, and she smiled.  Got up, moved the chair, slid the cot carefully away from the wall so she could get to his uninjured side.  Prayed she wouldn’t unbalance the thing and tip it over as she settled in next to him.  She’d get blood on her clothes, but that was nothing new in her line of work.

Spike shifted, turned his head toward her and inhaled.  Nuzzled into her hair, burrowed his body in next to hers.  Carefully reached up to trace the line of her shoulder.

“Are you really that cold?” she asked, worried.

“Nah,” he said sleepily.  “Just a warmth whore.” 

Surprised, Buffy laughed.  “I’ll remember that,” she said.  Put an arm around him, mindful of his ribs.  “Be jealous of any warm body that comes along.”

“Never,” he smiled.  “You’re the one for me.  Love you.”

She kissed his forehead, listened to him hum contentedly.  “I love you,” she said softly, and he shivered again, still smiling.

“Should talk to your friends,” he said after a moment.

“Maybe,” she mumbled.

“Definitely,” he said.  “You don’t know how long you’ll have them.”  Opened his eyes, sad.  “Can lose them when you least expect it, pet,” he said softly.  Stretched up to kiss her sweetly.  “Why don’t you want to talk to them, really?”

Buffy leaned into his kiss, let him put his head back down on the cot.  Rested her forehead against his, careful not to put weight on him, and sighed.  “Xander and I decided,” she said, “that we all have this thing where we don’t trust each other to make the right decisions, or to butt out of each others’ decisions when we do make them.”  She wriggled a little, getting more comfortable.  “I decided to leave Giles behind.  My friends _will_ all have opinions on that, and judgments, and questions, and I don’t want to have to defend myself to them anymore.”

“So don’t,” said Spike.  Reached up, played with a lock of her hair.  “Part of what I said before.  They care, and that’s good on them.  But it doesn’t give them a claim on you, love.  They don’t have the right to judge your choices unless you’re hurting them.  And you’re not.”

“What about Giles?” she asked him.  Felt the pain in her stomach start up again, and her voice start to waver.  Damn it.  “He decided I didn’t need to be told you weren’t dust.  I’ve got plenty of opinions on that.”

“That isn’t you needing to butt out of his choice,” said Spike.  “That’s you demanding the right to make your own bloody choices.  And judging him for hurting you, which he well deserves.  You made the right call there, love.  Long overdue, if you ask me.”

Buffy didn’t say anything, just kissed Spike again, slow and sweet and drowsy.  Dragged fingers through his hair as he gazed at her, sleepy and still reverent, still astonished that she loved him and could admit it so easily.

She settled in to think about what he’d told her as he drifted off, face nuzzled into her hair, nose grazing her temple.

Fell asleep herself, her head on his shoulder.


	29. Peaceful Rest, Loving Couples

The battle, again.  Spike recognized this place, somewhere a little off from their planned meeting point.  He was surrounded by dead and dying creatures, a couple of whom had gotten their licks in on him before he could finish them off, bit more rough than he usually liked his rough-and-tumble. He had a massive gash in his side, and some nasty or other had tried to take off his leg and nearly succeeded.  Could barely walk.  There were more coming and he wouldn’t be able to get away.

He needed to find Buffy.  She was here, somewhere, and he needed to go to her or she would be destroyed by the hordes, sheer bloody numbers overwhelming even her strength and skill, but no one would tell him where she was.

Could barely walk, but he needed to find Buffy.

Giles looked him up and down with contempt.  “She’s not for you,” he said.  “Unhealthy obsession.”  He held a chalkboard in one hand, dripping with water.  William’s marks were all smudged.  He held a cane in the other, and it whistled when he swung it through the air.

“But I love her,” whispered Spike.  William.  Spike.  The words echoed strangely in their hiding place, the stews of London, a few blocks from Cecily’s parlor.  He was badly wounded, could barely walk.

“No you don’t,” said Giles, “but thanks for saying it.”  Took off his glasses and placed them in his crossbow.  Fired them at the amulet Spike was wearing, and he felt himself dust.  The shot from the crossbow was on fire and it burned him, burned him all up.  Nothing left of him, but it was better than the cane, wasn’t it?

Felt himself drawing back together again, bit by bit, back into Angel’s office.  Illyria was there, waiting for him.  Drusilla stood to one side, next to His Broodiness, who just rolled his eyes and said, “Let Spike do it,” over and over again.  “Let Spike do it.”

Seeing Drusilla made him feel tired.

“I wish to keep this one as a pet,” said Illyria.  “He makes noises.”  Spike didn’t like that.  But he said yes anyway, because he needed to belong to someone until he could find Buffy.

“Let Spike do it,” said Angel.  Turned his back and walked away into the fog.  Left him behind.  Angel always did that.  Illyria held out a collar and leash to him, and he took them, but he wouldn’t put them on.

Not yet.  He needed to find Buffy.  She had to be here.

Spike opened the door and stepped past them and into his car.  Drove down the hallway, into Figg’s potting shed.  His hands on the steering wheel were wrapped in barbed wire.  He was driving underwater and Giles was in the backseat.  He kept giving directions that Spike knew were wrong but that he followed anyway, because Giles knew where Buffy was.  Maybe if he obeyed them – but no.  Because every time he took a wrong turn Giles frowned at him in disapproval.

“You can’t have her,” he said.  “Not worthy of her, mate, not hardly.”  The cane whistled when he swung it through the air.

Spike ducked the cane and found he was in the cistern now; the armies of Hell were coming for him and he was badly wounded.  Wouldn’t be able to get away.  Figg had wrapped him in chains and Giles had pushed him into the water while Illyria watched, her head tilted in annoyance.  Drusilla stood off to one side.  Seeing her made him feel tired.

“I wish to travel alone,” said Illyria, and walked away into the fog.  Left her pet behind.  Spike felt bad for not putting on the collar and leash for her.  Maybe then she wouldn’t have left him.

But he was bound anyway, here in the cistern, and he still hadn’t found Buffy.  She needed him.  He had to go to her.

He sank down through the water and through the mud, past the bones of the dead – humans, demons, all of them his – and found himself in a gray fog.  Nothing and no one.  The hordes weren’t coming for him here.  No one was.  No one would.

They were all dead, dead or gone.  He had no one left.  He could never find Buffy; she wasn’t here.  Not in the void.  He knew that much.

She wasn’t here and he couldn’t go to her.  Badly wounded, could hardly walk, and his hands were bound in barbed wire.  And he was tired, so tired from fighting the battle with no one at his back.  No one by his side, his right side, he fought with his left, needed someone on the right.

Someone in the distance.  Drusilla, walking toward him.  Illyria, striding purposefully, ice-blue eyes wide.  One or the other, or maybe both.  One a princess, one a queen.  Neither were the one he wanted.  He wanted…

Buffy.  Walking toward him silently, slowly, the Bringer’s knife in her hand.  She cut the leather thongs on his wrists and let him lean on her as they walked out of the cave.  She cut the sigils on his skin and the magic died out, left him exhausted.

They had all left him alone, and he was so tired from it he could barely stand.  But Buffy came.  So now it was okay, right?

“You,” he said, biting back a sob.  You came for me.  You’re real.  You’re here.   You came.

He leaned on her and found himself leaning into her, through her.  His head rested on her shoulder.  No, her head was on his shoulder.  No, they were kissing.  A Gaixo demon stood to one side, next to Drusilla who watched them and smiled.

“The Auspicious Body,” said the demon, orange eyes glinting in the lamplight.  They were in the garage, resting on the cot.  They were in a bed in Sunnydale that didn’t belong to them.  It was the best night of his life.

“Basking is for cats,” said Buffy.

“I will be a cat,” said Spike.  “I will be your pet.”  But she wasn’t holding a collar or a leash, and he wasn’t sure what to do.

“I need you in my life,” said Buffy.

“No you don’t,” said Giles, but Buffy turned her back on him and kissed Spike instead.  He felt himself melt into her, dissolving.  He was so tired.  He was so happy.  He was badly wounded, could barely walk…

But Buffy was taking care of him.

“Can we rest now?” he asked her.  Figg’s greenhouse, row upon row of flowers in the dark, was so quiet.  Peaceful.  And the cross on the altar looked inviting.  Something he could lean against.  He was exhausted.  The battle had gone on too long, with no one to fight by his side.

They had left him to fight alone, all of them dead or gone, left him behind.  He was so tired from it he could barely stand.

Spike stepped toward the cross, and Buffy was in front of him.  Drusilla was standing to one side.

“Can we rest now?” he asked her.  She put her arms around him and it was better than collapsing onto the wooden cross.  She was warm, but she didn’t burn.

“Shh,” said Buffy.  “I love you.”  And he believed her.

His arms were heavy, shoulders weary.  The collar and leash were cutting into his fingers and he didn’t want them anymore.

Spike dropped them, and his eyes opened.

* * *

 

“To wake you guys up, or not to wake you guys up?” said Xander softly, standing in the doorway between kitchen and garage.  “That is the question.”

“Wouldn’t that be… dangerous, or something?” asked the woman behind him.  He turned around, watched as Cathy tucked a stray bit of hair behind one ear.  “I mean, he is a vampire.  You both seem so – I don’t know – calm about that.”

“Well,” said Xander, “Buffy’s the Slayer – the one before there were lots of them, I mean – so if he were going to get out of hand she’d be able to stop him.”  He smiled fondly.  “In fact she’s kicked his ass on numerous occasions in the past.”  Turned back toward the pair cuddling precariously on the narrow camp bed.  “Plus, believe it or not, bleach boy there saved the world not too long ago.”  He sighed.  “And if I wanted to be fair I’d tell you he helped with at least two other apocalypses, too.”

“Vampires do that?” she asked quietly.

“This one does,” said Xander.

“Be a cat,” muttered Spike.  Stirred, subsided.  Buffy snuggled further into his side and they heard a faint, inhuman rumble from the cot.

Xander rolled his eyes. “What can I say, he’s weird,” he said.

Cathy chuckled, stepped back into the kitchen.  “You sound like he’s your annoying older brother or something,” she said.  “Like you don’t want to admit that you actually get along.”

“I plead the Fifth,” said Xander.  “Neither confirm nor deny, and all that good stuff.”  He dropped his keys onto the countertop, sighed at the blinking light on his answering machine.  “I’m taking bets,” he said.  “How many of those are for me, and how many are for Buffy.  Want to play?”

“Is it that bad?” she asked.  Moved to a bar stool, sat cautiously.  Polite. Not wanting to overstep.  One of the things Xander liked about her. 

“Well, you see,” he replied.  Xander peeled off his jacket, hung it up, offered to take hers.

“We love each other,” he said, “but for the most part we have zero ability to keep out of each other’s business.”  Pulled a can of pop out of the fridge, passed it to Cathy.  Pulled a beer out for himself.  “It would help if Buffy would ever answer any of these, but I can understand why she isn’t.”

“I appreciate that,” said a new voice from the doorway.  Buffy stood there, sleep mussed, clothes stained with dark brown streaks, yawning.  “For what it’s worth,” she said, “Spike’s been pestering me to talk to them, too.”  She shuffled into the room, holding a thermos in her hand.  “Hi, Cathy.”

“Is he awake now, too?” asked Xander.

“Yeah, Harris,” they heard from the garage.

“Good,” Xander called back. “Because I’m tired of you taking up space in my workshop.”  Took the thermos from Buffy with a wink, poured the blood out to reheat.

“Not my bloody fault you put me here in the first place,” came Spike’s reply.

“I see he’s feeling better,” Xander said to Buffy.  Knowing good and well that Spike would overhear.

“Much,” said Buffy.  “Cathy, thanks for the advice about the spell.  We got it off –” blushed bright red.  Coughed.  “I mean, we got the marks taken care of.  He says he’s not in any pain anymore.”

“I never feel any pain once I’ve gotten it off,” Spike replied, a purr lurking behind his words. 

Buffy’s cheeks were burning, and Xander couldn’t help it.  He snorted.  Hadn’t meant to give Spike the satisfaction, but funny is funny, after all.  Smiled over his shoulder at Cathy and said, “Welcome to our world.  If it’s going to be too weird, let us know now so we can help you escape.”

“I think I can handle weird,” she said softly.  Smiled back at him, which was more than a little distracting.  She turned to Buffy, said, “Spike had mentioned taking care of everything at once.  Would you mind if I took a look at your work – see if there’s anything that we missed?”

“I don’t mind,” said Buffy with a shrug, “and Spike has no modesty or shame to speak of –”

“Oi!”

“ – so I’m sure it will be all right with him too.  Oh, and he says he has a cracked skull, so if he gives you any lip, feel free to smack him upside the head,” she finished, raising her voice for the last part.

“And this is what she’s like when she claims she’s in love with me,” muttered Spike.

Xander nearly choked on his beer.  Got himself under control, raised an eyebrow at Buffy.  “Something you care to share with the rest of the class, Buffster?” he asked.

“Not really,” said Buffy, “if by ‘sharing’ you mean ‘defending myself to God and everybody.’”  The microwave beeped and she popped the door open.  Poured the reheated blood back into the thermos.  “I mean, I don’t plan on keeping us under wraps – we’re just going to do our thing, and I don’t need the drama of a Big Secret Romance.”  She headed back to the garage, paused in the doorway.  Looked out at Spike, said, “But I don’t intend to have a discussion with each and every one of the Scoobies, either.  Make sure it’s okay with everyone before I start going out with Spike.”

Xander’s smile was slow and genuine.  “Good for you,” he said.  Right about the same time that he heard Spike say, “That’s my girl,” from the garage.  Xander couldn’t miss the way Buffy’s face softened.  It was the most relaxed, the most genuinely happy he’d seen her since she’d gotten into town.

“You know Giles will have a fit,” he said.  Testing her reaction a little.

“Give you one guess just how much I care about Giles’ opinion,” said Buffy.  Raised an eyebrow at him and stepped out into the garage.

Xander smiled wider.  Looked like she was figuring out what maturity looked like without any help from him.

He followed her out, heard Cathy slide off the barstool behind him.  Spike was sitting up again, spreading the blanket and pulling it around behind him to cover his legs and waist.  Still plenty of pale bare skin to go around, though, and most of it was smeared with dried blood.  To be honest, he looked almost as gruesome as he had when they’d first brought him home.

Didn’t stop Buffy from sitting down next to him and dropping a gentle kiss on his lips, a caress of fingertips along his jaw.  On the one hand, Xander couldn’t suppress a shudder – bloodsucking undead and all – but on the other, there was Buffy.  Happy.  In love.  And the guy with the fangs looked like he couldn’t quite figure out how he’d managed to win the lottery, when he didn’t remember buying a ticket.

God help him, they were cute together.

“Well, I would tell you two crazy kids to get a room,” he said, “but you already have the house and I brought that leg brace home for Spike to get him inside.”  Waggled his thumb in the general direction of the living room couch, where he’d dropped the brace when he and Cathy first came in.  “I thought about renting a wheelchair too, but I don’t know that it’d get through the doorway any better than the cot would.” 

“No wheelchairs,” frowned Spike.

Xander shrugged.  “Your call,” he said.  “I’ll let you guys figure out whether Spike gets a separate room or takes up space in yours.”

“Bring me a towel, then, Harris,” said Spike.  “I may not _have any modesty or shame_ ,” he said with a glare at Buffy, “but I imagine your bird does and I could spare her the show.  And I don’t fancy putting clothes on over this mess,” he gestured at the ruined sigils and blood smears, “much less the ribs and the knee.”

“Makes sense to me,” he replied.  He turned to go, but Buffy ducked out and headed past him toward her room.

“Let me get it,” she said.  “Make sure the windows are covered, all that stuff.”

Xander shrugged.

“Um,” said Cathy.  “You know, uh, Spike, I’d like to check you over for any residual magic, if you don’t mind.  But maybe it would be best to wait till you’ve gotten settled?”

Spike tipped his head gingerly, looked her over for a second.  “Might be, at that,” he said, “but let’s see how I’m feeling first, eh, pet?”

When Buffy returned she had a bath towel over one shoulder and the leg brace – all metal frame and Velcro straps, looking like some kind of torture device – in her hands.  Her face was screwed into a doubt-filled grimace.

“This looks like fun,” she said.


	30. Walking, Cleansing

The walk, if you could call it that, from garage to guest bathroom was possibly the longest of Spike’s unlife.  He’d had broken bones before, and even walked on them when he absolutely had to, but a split kneecap was a new experience, and not one he cared to repeat.

Not bloody ever.

The less said about getting the brace on him, the better, what with fumbling with straps none of them knew how to use and banging the aluminum frame into his leg more than once.  The walk itself wasn’t too bad, having both Buffy and Harris supporting him on each side, but it wasn’t until they’d made it through the kitchen that Spike realized – this was the first time he’d been on his feet in well over a week.

If he had a temperature of his own, Spike would doubtless have been dripping with sweat before they’d gotten half so far.  If he’d had a pulse, likely just being upright would have made him too dizzy to even try walking at all.   As it was, he was shaking in every limb, shocked by how weak he still was even after days of almost constant feeding and rest.  The three of them inched along, pausing to rest far too often for Spike’s liking, but he didn’t have much of a choice.  His own sodding body would allow nothing else.

Pretty clear the witch would have to wait to run her tests till later.

So he leaned on Harris but mostly on Buffy, soaked her warmth in deep, ignored her when she accidentally bumped his ribs – that pain, at least, he was used to – and whenever they paused he buried his nose in her hair and drank in her scent.  Kept him from getting too upset with himself.  The state he was in.

Eventually they got him shuffled into the guest bathroom.  Spike braced shaking arms on the countertop and rested as best he could, while behind him Buffy and Harris held a quick conversation.  Do you need us for anythin’; no, why, where you going; oh, me and the bird are going out for a spot of dinner and maybe a movie, you sure you’ll be all right.  That sort of thing.

So, the boy and the witch had a date.  Bit odd considering the photo of Anya he’d spotted during one of their rest breaks.  Prominent.  On-the-mantel type prominent.

Ah, of course.  A memorial photo.

Buffy shut the door and they were alone again.

“Demon girl didn’t make it out of Sunnydale?” he asked quietly.  Not what he’d really wanted to say to her, but then, he wasn’t sure what he did want to say, shut in a bath with her for the first time since – that.

“No,” said Buffy.  Looked about as awkward as he felt.  No, not awkward – shy.  “No, she was killed saving Andrew’s life.  A Bringer.”  He watched her reflection as she tucked a lock of hair behind one ear.  “Xander named his construction company after her.”

Spike didn’t say anything, just shifted his weight.  Tried to get his arms to stop shaking.

“Here,” said Buffy.  Ducked under his arm.  “Lean on me.”

Spike closed his eyes.  “This was in my dream,” he murmured.  “This afternoon, while we slept.  Had a dream with you in it.  Strange.  Vivid.”

“And this happened?” she asked him.

“Something like it,” he said.  Only in his dream he’d ended up merging into her, leaning on and then _into_ her so that they blended and dissolved into one another.  Now that he was awake, Spike wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a good thing or not, but when it was happening he remembered feeling happy about it.  “Leaning on you,” he said into her hair.  “We were together.”

Buffy ducked her head.  He saw her smile in the mirror, felt himself smiling in response.  “Together is good,” she said.  She took more of his weight, got them turned around.  “So – is the shower okay?”

“Don’t think I’m up for all the knee-bendin’ I’d have to do for the bath,” he said.  “Sitting down, standing up.”

“That’s what I thought,” replied Buffy.  Paused.  “Um… is this okay?  I mean, me – would you rather have privacy, or something?”

Spike huffed something that was too tired to be a laugh.  “Can barely stand on my own, love,” he told her.  “Best I could do without you here is stand under the water for a bit.  Doubt I could even get turned round to do both sides.”

She bit her lips, looked away.  “Okay,” she said.  “And… I’m sorry.”

He frowned down at her in confusion.  “Nothing to be sorry for,” he said.  “Why would you –?”

“I just am,” she said.  “I know you don’t like people seeing you like this.”

“You’d be the exception, then, wouldn’t you?” he replied.  “You always are.”  Kissed her on the top of her head.  “Always have been.”

It was an ordeal, and Buffy had to half-lift him off the floor at one point – lovely on his ribs, that was – but eventually they managed to get him into the tub.  Buffy blushed, and started taking off her clothes.

Spike propped himself up against the wall of the bathtub and watched her with a smile.  Wanted her, of course.  She could wind him up at the drop of a hat, anytime she wanted.  Too bloody worn to do anything about it, but a bloke could always watch.  Be bloody stupid not to, when you thought about it.

Buffy stopped at her underthings and stepped in beside him nearest the faucet, and Spike’s smile widened.  His girl might be trying to keep things modest between them, and to be fair he was sure nothing was about to happen with the shape he was in, but he could already feel wet satin under his fingertips and it was all a fella could do to keep himself to himself.

“Too tempting, love,” he said to her.  Watched her blush.  Didn’t bother to hide the growing erection his towel was doing nothing to cover.  Felt his heart kick once in his chest.  “You’re too tempting by half.”

“This isn’t why we’re here,” she said, looking away, and Spike’s smile faded.  Christ, he was an idiot.  Back in a bathroom together for the first time since – that – and the first thing out of his mouth was about sex?

Bloody hell.

“I know that,” he said quickly.  “Buffy.  I do know.  You’re just… beautiful, that’s all.  Fella can’t help how he reacts.”  He tried to stand straighter, thought better of reaching out to touch her, close as she was.  “But he can still mind his soddin’ manners, yeah?”

She looked up at him, and to his surprise she actually seemed confused for a second.  Spike watched as her face cleared.  “Oh,” she said.  “That.  No – I wasn’t thinking about – I trust you, Spike.  I already told you.” This time she reached for him, brushed her thumb across his lower lip.  “I love you,” she said, and his eyes fell shut.  “I’m just trying to figure out how to get you clean without – I dunno – giving you the wrong idea?”

Spike smiled, relieved, and caught her thumb between his teeth.  Licked the tip and watched her shiver as he let her go.  “As long as you live,” he said, “I will always have _that_ idea in mind, every time I look at you.”  Looked her up and down, took his sweet time about it.  “Christ, you’re beautiful.”

“Whatever,” she replied.  Reached down to start the water running.  “If I’m so great, then I need to ask you something.”

“All right,” he said.

“It’s really easy,” said Buffy.  “Two words:  ‘Harmony? Really?’”  Raised an eyebrow at him while clearly fighting a smile.

Cheeky, his girl was.

Spike ducked his head with a grin and pulled off his towel.

* * *

 

Despite the smiling and the… horniness, Buffy thought Spike looked worse, now that he was up and on his feet, than he had while still stuck on the cot in the garage.  Probably because the feet he was standing on were injured to begin with, to say nothing of all the other cuts on his body.  It was a miracle Spike hadn’t tracked dead-guy vampire blood all through the house as they helped him to the bathroom.  He was clearly exhausted just from having taken such a short trip, and she had no idea how he was managing to still stay vertical with the way he was shaking.

She’d really thought he was recovering better than this.  It was scary to see that he wasn’t.  In fact he was reminding her a little too much of the time in Sunnydale when a hell goddess had worked him over.

 _Okay, Buffy_ , she told herself. _You can do this._

Warm water.  Pull the curtain.  Thank Xander mentally for having one of those shower hose thingies.

Turn Spike around to face the wall, so he could brace himself better.

She ran the water up Spike’s back and heard him sigh, watched him sag forward till his cheek was resting on the tile, hands on either side of his face.  Carefully, gently, soaked his hair, watching the water trickle gray down the back of his neck and across his cheekbones.  A smell like fresh potting soil rose up around them.

Buffy hadn’t realized just how filthy Spike still was from his ordeal.  Now she could see the tracks from where she and Xander had first rinsed him off, back when he was lying on the cot still unconscious and bound in cord, gray trails that had trickled around his ribs to collect dirt all along his spine.  She rinsed him carefully, head to toe, and when he sighed again she reached forward to turn the heat up.

“Thanks, love,” he murmured.  Eyes shut.  She could barely hear him over the hiss of the spray.

“Hush,” she said in his ear.  “Give your ribs a rest.  You don’t need to breathe if you don’t talk.”

She saw his cheek shift in a tired smile, but he didn’t say anything else.

Right.  What came next… shampoo.  Buffy was glad, right at the moment, that Spike wasn’t that much taller than she was.  It made it easier to work her fingers through his hair.  Ugh, and she could feel the grit now, collecting under her nails as she lathered, rinsed, repeated.  He definitely needed the repeat.

When she was done, Spike’s hair hung in dripping curls, fallen-angel bright except for the couple weeks’ worth of darker roots showing.  He’d definitely been grubbier than she first thought.

From his head, she worked her way down slowly, carefully, doing what she could to avoid his injuries but cleaning as thoroughly as she could everywhere else.  Massaged his shoulders a bit, slid her hands down along the furrows of his spine and heard him groan softly.  Heard him hiss as the soap got into the cuts that wrapped around his chest to the back. A little grunt when she found an especially tight knot in one muscle.

She soaped the firm muscles of his ass, but decided he could rinse his private bits himself after she turned him around.  Buffy didn’t care how much grit was in there, and she really had no desire to find out.

She couldn’t wash his injured leg, since it was covered by the brace and all that Velcro, but she managed to hose it down pretty thoroughly before she soaped and rinsed the other.  Unwound and peeled wet gauze away from each ankle, watched Spike flinch the tiniest bit as the water hit the punctures left behind by the barbed wire.  Buffy caressed them gently before standing up to help him turn.

“Better?” she asked when they were facing each other again.  Spike looked more than half-asleep, head lolling back against the wall and arms hanging loosely by his sides.  He took a slow breath before answering, and she half-smiled.  The fact he’d actually listened to her suggestion said a lot about how much pain he was in.

“Do anything you want with me,” he breathed.  “In my dream I belonged to you.”

“You did?”

“Mm,” he said, eyes closing.  His eyebrows lowered for a second.  “Actually, no.  I offered.  Someone else – you never met her – she wanted me as her pet, and I was waiting till I found you.” Another slow breath. “I was looking for you, in my dream.”

Buffy leaned in on her tiptoes and kissed him.  Spike lowered his head just enough to reach her, moved his lips across hers as if drugged, slow and heavy and sensual.  She heard the slip-slide as he braced his hands behind him on the wet tile.  Felt his cock come to attention, little by little, poking her in the thigh.  He pressed on his chest with one hand for just a second and she wondered if she’d hurt him.

God, she needed to stop teasing him like this.  But the things he said…

“Did you find me?” she asked.

His eyes barely opened, blue slits looking at her through damp lashes.  “You found me,” he said.  “And I offered to be your pet.”

She shook her head, trailed fingers across his collarbones.  “I wouldn’t want that,” she said.

Spike blinked and opened his eyes a bit wider, looked at her – wounded.  She’d hurt his feelings? 

“Whyever not?” he asked.

Buffy drew wet fingers down his cheek.  “Because you don’t belong to me,” she said. “I think you belong _with_ me – it’s not the same thing.  I don’t want to own you.  We tried that, once.”  She looked away, at the faucet, the drain, the bottle of shampoo.  “Never again, Spike.  You deserve better.”

Shaking fingers came up to trace her jaw, and she made herself look at him again.  He had white curls falling across his forehead and tears standing in his eyes.  Gazing at her like she was his entire world.  They were talking about what _he_ deserved?  How had _she_ ever come to deserve _him_?

Buffy washed Spike’s arms for him, watched him cup the water in his palms and the stained, dried blood loosen and flow down the drain.  Held the hose up high so he could stick his face under the spray.  She thought he might stay under forever, the not-breathing showoff, and she rolled her eyes and smiled at him when he finally pushed her hand away and opened his eyes.

Soaped his chest, carefully.  There were so many cuts, making a cross that covered his torso.  Swallowed hard when she dragged her palms across his nipples and he arched into her touch.  Buffy looked up and saw his eyes, dark with desire. 

Looked down, and noticed something besides the obvious.

“These bruises,” she said.  “They weren’t here before.”

Spike looked down at the spot, where black and blue marks were appearing to cover his broken ribs.  “Didn’t have enough blood at first,” he said, “then I wasn’t moving to get the blood to the surface.”  He tipped his head back against the tile again.  “Walking about plus the hot water must be bringing them up.”

Interesting.

Buffy let the water flow between them, her bra and panties getting soaked as she rinsed his chest, stroked her palms across his belly.  She leaned in and kissed him again and again, slow, soft, till he rumbled in his chest and brought one hand up to stop her.

“Sorry,” she said.

“No, pet,” said Spike.  “Never be sorry.  Just – my legs are going to give out from more than your kisses, before too much longer.”

Water off.  Buffy helped him out to sit on the toilet and toweled him dry, while he braced himself upright.  He was reminding her again of the time Glory had beaten him half to death, the way he could barely sit up on his own, back in his crypt. 

Together they staggered off to her bed, Spike with one arm across her shoulders and one on the wall with every shuffling step.  He sank into bed with a sigh and didn’t move an inch while she undid the soaking wet leg brace.  She stepped across the hallway to drop it in the bathtub.

By the time she got back to her room, he was asleep.


	31. Telephone, Argument

Buffy picked out some clean clothes and headed back into the bathroom to towel off and change.  As peaceful as Spike looked, as much as she wanted to curl up next to him, the truth was that he needed his rest and she was both wide awake and hungry enough to eat something, for a change.  Plus she wasn’t sure she’d be able to let him actually sleep if she did get in bed with him.  All this kissing and teasing was having its effect on her, too.

No, an escape to forage the kitchen for dinner was definitely of the good if she wanted to keep her hands to herself.

She heated some leftovers in the microwave and thought about the things Spike had said before their nap together.  Yes, she probably did need to get in touch with her friends.  Eventually.  Maybe.  But it was also important that she establish herself here in this new life she was trying to build – especially considering that it looked like her new life would have Spike in it – and that was something she had to do on her own.  Wasn’t it?

Having Spike back was a completely unexpected gift that Buffy wasn’t going to throw away.  She knew she needed him in her life, and wanted him to stay if he’d still have her.  What she didn’t know was whether she’d be able to keep him if her friends started pressuring her to give him up.  Wouldn’t having all her friends weighing in on everything undermine the relationship she wanted to have with him?

It wasn’t like she had a whole lot of practice standing on her own without their input; knowing what she wanted was hard enough.  Figuring that out, and then sticking to her guns in the face of their well-intentioned meddling?

From where Buffy was sitting, from what she knew of herself, that sounded pretty much impossible.

As if to underscore what she was thinking, the phone started to ring right as Buffy finished spooning her dinner onto a plate.  She walked over and checked the caller ID, sighed.  International number.  One of hers, then.  The machine could get it.

So yeah.  Right now talking to her friends was just – something she wasn’t ready for.  In the meantime, she’d set up her new bank account, get her driver’s license renewed, and… yes.  Definitely needed to look into a place of her own to live.  Xander was a hero for letting her stay with him, but he deserved his privacy and as far as Buffy was concerned, “new life” meant “new home”.  And she really, really wanted to have a place to call her own after a year of hotels and apartments all over Europe.

The phone didn’t ring again until Buffy was nearly finished eating, maybe a half-hour later.  She could feel her shoulders tighten as she checked the ID.  Another international number.

Buffy sighed.  Rolled the tension out of her shoulders, rinsed her plate and put it in the sink.

She found the day’s paper, already in the recycling, and spread it out on the countertop of the “bar” at the entrance to the kitchen.  Leafed through the pages until she found the classifieds, hunted up a pen, and sat down.  Started circling places that sounded interesting.

The next time the phone rang it was somebody local, but that meant it was for Xander and she didn’t need to pick up, so she let the machine take that one too.

Buffy took her sweet time looking through the apartments section, longer than she really needed.  She told herself it was because she wanted to give Spike time to sleep without her disturbing him once she climbed into bed, but if she were being honest with herself it was because she liked the quiet.  Unfortunately the quiet kept getting interrupted by a ringing phone – they were all for Xander, but still – and in order to relax after each call, Buffy felt like she had to start her quiet time over again from the beginning.

She looked at the thing out of the corner of her eye, mounted there on the wall next to her.  Should she turn the ringer off?  She sighed again.  No… because if she forgot to turn it back on, Xander might miss out on important business.

Just when she was finally starting to get settled, and her shoulders were coming back down from around her ears, the ringing started.  Again.

She checked the caller ID.  International number.

Buffy gathered up the newspaper and pen and took them back into her bedroom.  Hopefully the little table lamp being on wouldn’t bother Spike – shouldn’t, being as he literally slept like the dead – and she’d be able to finish apartment hunting in peace.

Another hour or so went by before Spike woke up.  Long, slow intake of breath – a hitch and tiny grunt as he found the sore spot in his side.  Bedsprings creaking as he stretched and shifted.  Buffy looked over her shoulder at him.

“Hey,” she smiled.  “How’re you feeling?”

“Clean,” he said.  Voice still husky from sleep.   “Peckish, again. ‘S like I have hollow legs or something.”

“Well, I sure don’t know where you’re putting it all,” Buffy teased.  “Do vampires get fat?”

“Hey, none of that from you, missy,” he growled.  Saw him smile as he looked her up and down.  “You could stand to eat a bit more yourself.”

“Just had dinner,” she said.  “Let me get yours, ‘kay?”

“Appreciate that,” he replied.  Tried to sit up, bared his teeth as his arms started shaking.  “Bloody hell.”

“Here, let me,” said Buffy.  Let him lean on her as they carefully got him upright, arranged a couple pillows behind him.  “Should you still be this… you know.  Wobbly?”

Spike licked his lips, looked away for a second in thought.  “Takes a lot to kill a vampire, love,” he said finally.  “Spell nearly did the job.  Reckon I’ve got reserves need filling up, get my full strength back.”  He shrugged with one shoulder.  “Now the spell’s off completely, shouldn’t take too long.  Healing should go faster, all that.”  He turned a hand palm up, held it out with a smile.  “You wait, these chicken scratches will be so many scars by tomorrow.  Gone in a week.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said.  Brought her shoulders up, hugged her elbows.  “Anyway.  Dinner.”  She pointed a thumb behind her towards the kitchen.    “I’ll just.”

Spike nodded, settled himself more comfortably against the pillows as she stepped out the door.

She was on her way back when the phone began to ring.  Buffy stopped, closed her eyes for a second, then walked back up the hall to her room.  Handed the mug of blood to Spike without a word, set the thermos on the side table where he could reach it.

“You going to get that, love?” he asked.

“No,” she replied.  Spike raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he emptied his mug of blood.

The ringing continued.  Buffy gritted her teeth for a second, then purposefully blew out a breath and turned back to the newspaper.

 “Care to tell us what you’re doing,” he asked, “that’s so important you can’t stop long enough to answer the phone?”

“I’m looking for apartments,” said Buffy.  “Xander’s great, but I can’t stay here forever.”

Spike shifted in the bed.  She heard him hiss and glanced over to see him clutching his ribs.  “That’s funny,” he grunted.  “From here I thought for certain you were playing that Sudoku game instead.”

“I’m taking a break,” muttered Buffy.  “Anyway the calls are mostly for Xander.  I don’t need to answer those.”

“And if it isn’t for Harris?” he asked.

She scribbled a seven into one of the squares of the grid.  “I don’t have to answer those, either,” she said evenly.

Spike snorted quietly, shook his head at her.  “You can’t hide from them forever, you know,” he said.

“I’m not hiding from them,” Buffy insisted.  “I’m trying to set up a new life that involves me, standing on my own two feet for once.”

“For once?”  Spike looked at her, incredulous, brows lowered.  “Buffy, you’re one of the strongest people I know.  You’ve done plenty of standing on your own.  You’ve survived apocalypses, for God’s sake – to say nothing of handling your mother’s passing, raising Dawn…” He stopped, squinted at her.  “What’s this about, really?”

“God, Spike, don’t you see?” she asked him tiredly.  Propped her elbows on the desk and dug her thumbs into her eyebrows.  “I haven’t ever done anything on my own, no matter what it might have looked like.  Willow, Xander, Giles,” her mouth twisted as she said his name, “my mom – those guys have always been there, looking over my shoulder, making sure I didn’t screw anything up – or, you know, making sure I didn’t do anything that didn’t fit with their ideas of how I should behave.”

She huffed a sad little laugh.  “Even you pointed out to me that the only reason I lasted so long as a Slayer was because I had support instead of going it alone.”

“But that’s a good thing, innit,” said Spike.  “You do better with them around.  Doesn’t make you less strong because you have friends.”

“This is different,” said Buffy.  “It isn’t a matter of us – saving each others’ lives, or something.  It’s about the manipulation, about people keeping secrets from me, about them sticking their noses and their opinions and their judgments where they don’t belong.”

She sighed, turned to face him wearily.  “I’m trying to get away from all that,” she said.  “I’m trying to start over, here in the States.  New place to live, new job, new… relationship,” she smiled shyly at him.  “New everything.”

“But not new friends,” Spike pointed out.

“What – no,” Buffy said.  “Nothing like that.  I’m just – I’m not ready, yet.”

“That’s not how it looks from here, pet,” he said.  Eyes serious.

Buffy’s eyes grew wide.  “What are you saying?” she asked.

“I’m saying that if I were them, I’d be starting to wonder, right about now, whether or not you were walking away from me as part of your ‘new life’ too,” said Spike.  “Whether or not you were lumping me in with Giles, leaving me behind, without bothering to ask first whether I had anything to do with his secret-keeping and lies.”

“That’s not what this is,” said Buffy, upset.  “I just need to have some time to myself.”

“And again I’ll tell you,” he insisted, “that that isn’t what things look like from where I’m sitting.  Likely not from where they’re sitting either.”  He set the mug to one side, tried to fold his arms.  Screwed his face up in annoyance and pain.  “It looks a lot like you’re just dumping them the way you dumped Giles.  Like you don’t even want them as friends anymore.”

“But that’s not true!” she exclaimed.

“Then why aren’t they here, with you,” he asked quietly.

“How can you ask me that?” she demanded.   “Do you think I could have just dropped everything and come to find you if they were here?  What are the odds we’d still be debating what the messages really meant, or whether or not we could trust them, or if maybe ‘go to him, he needs you’ was just some stupid metaphor?  God, Spike – it’s you.  Do you really think I would have been _allowed_ to come after you without the whole committee getting their two cents’ in, first?  ‘Gosh, Buffy, I don’t know, is he really good for you?  Are you sure that’s not just your own interpretation, Buffy?  Is that really a good idea?’”

She threw her hands in the air, brought them down to tug at her hair.  “I’m not in the mood to deal with that kind of pressure from them anymore.  I’m _not_ stronger when I have to deal with all that – that crap.”  She rubbed her hands over her face, sighed again.  “It’s because of that crap that I’ve never learned how to deal with real life or trust my own decisions.”  She looked at him again, eyes heavy.  “Weren’t you the one who said I didn’t have to defend myself to them anymore?”

“I was,” said Spike, “but this isn’t the same.  You’re worried about pressure – the longer you avoid them, the more that pressure is going to build.  If not from them, then from your own conscience, Buffy.  Every time that phone rings it will eat at you, knowing that you’re hiding from your friends, from your family, telling yourself you’re not.”

“But I just want to be left alone!” she exclaimed.

“And I _was_ left alone!” Spike shouted, then grunted and hunched over, holding his broken ribs.  “Nngh.  Damn it, Buffy.  Everyone in Los Angeles – everyone I had a hope of calling a friend – Christ, even the ones I didn’t trust enough to call friends.  They’re all _gone_ , Buffy.  They’re _dead_.  I will _never_ get the chance to speak to any of them, ever again.  I left LA completely alone, my personal hell, and you saw what happened to me.  And there’s another one – Figg?  That old demon running the greenhouse?  He was insane, Buffy, because he’d been _left alone_ , the way you seem to want so badly.  His family were all destroyed and he had nothing left.”

Buffy started to speak, but Spike held up a hand to stop her while he caught his breath.  “They love you,” he went on after a moment, “your sister, your friends.  They love you, and you are on the verge of throwing their friendship away because – what?  You don’t want to have to answer their questions?”  He looked at her, eyes pained.  “How soon before you do that to me too, Buffy?” he asked her softly.

Buffy’s heart twisted painfully at the expression on his face.  She moved from her chair to sit on the bed facing him, reached up to touch his face.  “I love you,” she said.  “I would never – you have to believe me.”

“You love them,” he said, closing his eyes; “that isn’t stopping you.”  He reached up and caught her hand, pressed his face into her palm for a moment before he opened his eyes again.  “I can’t do this again,” he said sadly.  “I can’t live, hearing you say that you love me, and still wondering how long it will be before you push me away over something trivial, something you don’t have the courage to face,” he said.  “I can’t do it, Buffy.  I –” he swallowed, glanced away for a second before finding her eyes again.  “I haven’t got anyone else.”

She took him in, his posture, his vulnerable, open expression.  Slid forward so she could wrap her arms around his shoulders, gently.  Rested her forehead against his for a moment.  “I just,” she said finally, “I don’t want to have to defend leaving England. Leaving Giles.  Or being with you. I’m not even sure what to tell them about finding you still alive.” Pulled back, rolled her eyes with a little smile.  “Undead, whatever.”

Spike smiled too, and Buffy’s heart lifted a little.  “So don’t defend yourself,” he said.  “You’ve done nothing wrong, love.  But they have no idea where you’ve even been these past days, and they’re likely worried sick.  You do owe it to them to let them know you’re not dead or in prison.” She laughed a little, but she could see he was serious.  “You may not owe them anything else, but you do owe them that,” he finished.

Buffy looked away.  Bit her lip, fidgeted with her hands in her lap.  Finally she sighed.

“I don’t even know who to call first,” she said, and Spike leaned back against his pillows, visibly relieved.

“Try your family,” he suggested.  “Dawn.  If any of the Scoobies will be understanding and supportive of your choices, it should be her, yeah?”

“I guess so,” said Buffy.

“Get the gossip from your sister,” he said.  “Find out ‘what’s the what’, like you’re always saying.  Decide from there whether you want to talk to anyone else or just have Dawn relay a message.”

“You’re giving me an out?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

Spike answered her eyebrow with one of his own.  “I’m giving you a start,” he replied.  “’S better than keeping your head in the sand and pretending your friends aren’t still on your mind.”

“Yeah,” said Buffy.  She got up, went to her dresser and pulled open the top drawer.

Pulled out her cell phone and charger, stared at them for a moment, chewing her lip.

Hooked them together, and plugged them in.


	32. Call, Courage

“Hello?”  Long-distance.  Very long distance, from here to Rome.  Static on the line, that weird European ringtone before Dawn picked up.

God, Buffy was nervous.

“Hey, Dawnie,” she said.  Rubbed one palm along her thigh, over and over.

“Oh, my God, Buffy?”  Dawn came dangerously close to squealing.  “Is that really you?”

“Yeah,” she said.  “Sorry it’s so late.  Um.” Bit her lip, found herself looking away as if Dawn were sitting right there in front of her.

“Oh my God,” Dawn said again.  “You’re okay! I mean – you are okay, right?  I’ve been worried.  I’ve been going nuts and Giles won’t tell me anything.”

Buffy snorted.  “Yeah,” she said.  “He’s good at that, isn’t he.”

“Well, but, you’re okay, right?  He wouldn’t tell me where you went or why except that you were headed back to the States.  He made it sound like you were on some big mission or something.”

She gritted her teeth.  “He would.”  Took a deep breath, forced herself to settle down.  “Look, Dawnie.  No.  I mean, yes – I’m fine.  I’m mostly fine.  I’m okay though.  And there’s no stupid mission.  Giles is just… God, I don’t even know where to start.”

“You mean… you can talk about it?” Dawn’s voice quieted, grew serious.  Less excited, more worried.

Another deep breath.  Buffy’s sigh carried across the line.  “Yeah,” she said softly.  “I think maybe I can, finally.”  A hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up from her spot on the floor, leaning against the bed where Spike rested.  He wound his fingers through her hair and tugged gently on a lock, traced her ear with the back of a finger.  “It’s just – it’s been a rough couple of weeks.  Kind of a rollercoaster.  I haven’t really wanted to talk to anybody.”

“I know,” Dawn said.  “I called Willow and the rest to see if they’d heard anything from you.”  There was a little pause.  “I… think I kinda rang a few alarm bells, calling everybody like that.  Sorry if they’ve been bugging you.”

Buffy chuckled. “Well, they’ve probably been bugging Xander and his answering machine –”

“And emails,” said Dawn.

“– and emails,” Buffy agreed.  “But I guarantee they’ve been bugging him more than me.  This is the first I’ve even picked up my cell phone since I got off the plane.”

“Wait, seriously?  How did you live?” 

Buffy rolled her eyes.  “Funny,” she said.  “But I meant to ask you about that, actually.  About anything Xander might have said to you.”

“Oh,” Dawn replied.  “Nothing.  A whole fat lot of nothing,” she said, and Buffy could hear the annoyed teenager creeping into her voice.  “Just that you were staying there for a little while, and some stuff about respecting your privacy and how whatever was going on with you wasn’t his story to tell, and he wasn’t going to make decisions for you, or something like that.”

Buffy smiled.  Hero.  He really was.  She was going to have to remember to thank Xander again after this.

She shifted her weight as Dawn went on. “So, now that you’re talking – spill, already.  What’s been happening?”

“A lot,” said Buffy.  “Like I said, it’s really been a rollercoaster.  Things have been… hard, I guess is the best word.  As for details…” She shut her eyes.  “Before I tell you all of it, I need to ask you something.  Um.  About Spike.”

“Spike?” asked Dawn.  “Why? I mean, he’s – he died.  Right?”  A gasp.  “Oh my God, is he not dead?”

“Just bear with me, okay, Dawn?” asked Buffy, her eyes still closed.  Dragged her feet closer, brought her knees up to touch her chest.  “As far as you’ve heard, when did Spike – when did he.  You know.”

“Ummm, at the Hellmouth?”  Distantly Buffy heard a squeak, recognized the sound of Dawn’s bedsprings as she plopped down.  “You were there.  Buffy, seriously, you’re starting to freak me out.  What’s this about?”

No easy way to say it.

“Giles lied to me, Dawn,” she said in a rush.  “Lied to both of us, I think.”

Silence, apart from the static on the line.  Buffy waited, but Dawn didn’t say anything.  Bit her lip.  Dove into the breach.

“Giles found out that Spike… came back,” she said.  “And he didn’t tell me anything.  I only overheard a couple weeks ago that he’d died… again, I guess … in Los Angeles.  There was something like a, a mini-apocalypse and.”  She swallowed.  “Um.  Angel is dead.  And the rest of them.”

“Oh, God,” breathed Dawn.  Then, “Oh, _God._ And Giles _knew_?  That – that – son of a bitch!”

A wave of relief washed over her.  Dawn hadn’t known.  More, Dawn felt the same way as Buffy did about it.  She felt her shoulders drop a notch, smiled.  “That’s what I said,” she started, but Dawn wasn’t finished.

“You could have been with him, o-or found him, or you could’ve, or _something_ – maybe you could have helped!  Maybe he wouldn’t – maybe none of them would be dead if he’d just _said_ something!  That _jerk_!  Oh, my God, Buffy!”

And… was it wrong that hearing Dawn go off like that warmed Buffy’s heart, just a little?  Because it so did.

“Dawn,” she said.  “ _Dawn_.  It’s – well, okay, it’s not _okay_ , but I’m not – I have more.”  Heard the bed creak again, felt Spike’s fingers winding through her hair.  She let out a slow breath and tipped her head back so he could reach her better.  He dug his fingers in at the back of her neck, scratching lightly with his nails, and brought her hair up to fan across the covers.

“So, um.  Anyway,” said Buffy, then scoffed a little at how lame she sounded.  “So yeah, that’s why I really left England.  There’s no mission, or anything like that.  I’m just done with – I mean, as far as I’m concerned Giles is – ” She huffed out an exasperated breath.  “I have a list of people I care about, you know?  I do all this saving the world, but there’s people I really love.  People I would do anything to help, or protect.  You, the Scoobies.  Spike.”  Felt his fingers tighten in her hair, another caress along the side of her neck.  She smiled, didn’t turn around.  “Giles isn’t on that list anymore, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Wow,” said Dawn.  “Seriously?”

“Oh yeah,” she replied.  “I’m done with the lies, the keeping secrets, the… the guilt trips and manipulation.  I told him never again.  I packed my bags and I told him I never wanted him to speak to me or, or even look at me, ever again.”  She swallowed.  “I’m still… really pissed at him.”

“You should be,” Dawn said, and Buffy felt tears come to her eyes.

God, she’d needed to hear that.

“Is that everything?” Dawn asked.  “You said you weren’t done.  Is that – are you done now?”

“No,” said Buffy.  “Almost.  Um.  This next part doesn’t go past you and me.  I promise, I’ll tell Willow and the rest myself, but I wanted you to hear it first, okay?  And Giles doesn’t have to find out ever.  I’m done giving him any access to my life, got it?”

“Yeah, okay,” said Dawn.  Buffy couldn’t help but think that her sister sounded like she was at a slumber party, or something.  Leaning forward, in a circle of girlfriends, about to get the juiciest gossip on some cute boy. 

 _Sis_ , thought Buffy, _you have no idea_.

“So, Giles… as far as he knows, Spike and everyone died in LA.  About a month or so back, right?”  She wiped her palms across her thighs again, one at a time.  “He, um.  His information was kinda… he didn’t get everything right.”  You can do this, Buffy.  “Spike made it out.  Again.”

“Oh, my God,” Dawn breathed.  Buffy could barely hear her over the static in the line.  “You mean like, I mean, you know this for sure?  He’s out there somewhere?  He really made it?”  Another squeak, and Buffy thought she heard Dawn’s feet hitting the floor.  “Are you going to look for him? You have to look for him, Buffy!”

“You mean that?” Buffy asked, voice small.  “I mean… you were pretty mad at him, in Sunnydale… before everything.”

“That was kinda before he saved the world, duh,” said Dawn.  “And… I’ve had some time to think since then, you know.  I still want an explanation, but… something Xander said kinda stuck with me.  About things not being his story to tell.  And I got to thinking – I mean, if you could forgive him.  I guess I don’t have the right – I mean, maybe I don’t need to threaten him with waking up on fire anymore, you know?”

And Buffy felt her shoulders drop another notch.  Felt something in her stomach loosen that had been tight and aching for too long.

“Really, really glad to hear you say that,” she said.  “’Cause I’ve been busy, these past couple weeks.”

“Wait, does that mean you know where he is?  Do you have it narrowed down? I could get Willow to do a locator spell –”

“Ah-ah-ah!  Stop right there,” said Buffy.  “Remember what I said.  This stays between us.  I will talk to Willow soon, I promise, but I’ll talk to her, not you.  I have some things I need to ask her, too.”

“You have some– like what?  Ohhh.”  Dawn’s voice suddenly dropped low.  “You want to know if she’s been in on the whole Spike being alive thing.  You think she was – hey, wait a minute.  You thought _I_ was keeping secrets.  Didn’t you?”  Buffy could hear the anger rising.  And there was that knot in her stomach again, back with interest. 

“Really, Buffy?  Really?  You thought that I would actually do something like –”

“Like not tell you that you were the Key, until after you slit your wrists?” said Buffy.  Sighed, tired all of a sudden.  “I’m not saying you were doing anything, Dawnie.  I’m just saying that it’s the kind of thing we all do to each other, and I have no way to know –”

“Well you could try asking,” Dawn cut her off.

“I did,” said Buffy.  Starting to get more than a little pissed off herself.  “Just now.  And Giles was keeping you in the dark too.  How about you be mad at the right person?”  Buffy rubbed at the ache in her stomach, swallowed hard.  Resisted the urge to throw her phone across the room.  Spike’s fingers were cold where they were squeezing her shoulder.  “God, this is why I didn’t want to talk to anybody.”

“What, you didn’t want to have to accuse us of things we didn’t do?” said Dawn scornfully.  “Yeah, I can see where you’d want to keep that to yourself.  You should have.”

“Oh, so it would be better if I just went around making assumptions and not talking to people at all?  ‘Cause that’s the other thing we do, you know,” said Buffy heatedly.  “We’re really good at it.  And I gotta tell ya, that’s pretty much exactly where I was going until Spi –“  Cut herself off.

Shit.

“Until what?” said Dawn.  Anger evaporating.  “Buffy?  Did you just say until Spike?”

She sighed.  “That’s the other thing I was going to tell you,” she said.  “I don’t need Willow to do a locator spell.”

“Because Spike?”  She was starting to squeal, but at least she didn’t sound angry at Buffy anymore.

“I found him,” she said.  “Banged up, but he’s getting better.”  Wondered how much of that was her story to tell.  “He got out of the apocalypse thing, but then I guess he had a few other adventures before I could get to him.”

Heard a little snicker behind her, quickly stifled.

“Oh, my God,” said Dawn in wonder.  “Oh, my God!  Oh, wow, oh… Is he there where you are?  I mean, is he around to talk to?”  Buffy could just picture her, jumping up and down in her pajamas, somewhere in Rome.

Spike’s hand stroked the back of hers, holding the cell phone.  She looked up at him, asked a question with her eyes.  He answered with a tilt of his head, and she let go of the phone, let it slide into his palm.

She stood to go, give him some privacy while he talked with her sister.  Gave him a kiss as he brought the phone to his ear, and headed for the door.

She looked back just as he took a breath. “Hello, Bit,” he said.

Jerked the phone away from his ear with a wince as Dawn went absolutely bananas.

* * *

 

Spike listened with half an ear as Dawn babbled excitedly at him.  Explained that he was both wounded and tired when she caught him not paying as much attention as he ought to have been, brushed off her apology with a smile.  She had nothing to apologize for, far as he was concerned.  Hearing her voice again – hearing it free of that low, deadly anger that she’d carried the last time they’d seen each other – was sweeter for him than he could have ever hoped.

How else could he react when his Nibblet was laughing in his ear, crying tears of happiness because she’d bloody missed him?  She was family – he’d practically raised her for a too-brief period, back when Buffy was still dead – and he hadn’t realized until then just how much he’d missed her, too.  Being able to talk to her was – there almost weren’t words for it.  “Balm to his soul” seemed like a good place to start.

He felt something unknot within himself as they talked.  Realized after a moment what it was.

Spike wouldn’t have to be alone anymore if he had her and Buffy, both, in his life.  Not while they lived.  That horrible void, that sodding nightmare he kept getting where he couldn’t do anything, and no one cared enough to even notice he was gone – with Buffy just out in the hallway and Dawn on the phone with him, he’d never have to have that nightmare again.

God, he was such a ponce, sometimes.  Didn’t make it less true, though. 

If he had them, he had a family again.  Maybe more of one than he’d ever had.  All he’d ever need, that was for sure.

Even so, Spike was only listening with half an ear because the other half was trained on Buffy, herself.  She had whispered something about privacy, but he had a feeling she was maybe taking the time to put herself back together again, after her half of the phone call to her sister.  Buffy’s courage… he never got over it.  This was the easiest of the conversations she expected to have between her and the rest of the Scoobies, and it still included an argument and shoulders he could almost feel quivering with tension under his fingertips.

But she’d done it anyway.

He’d really have to work on this idea she had, that she wasn’t strong on her own.  Strongest bloody bint he’d ever met, stronger than most blokes.  And she still thought she was a coward?  Maybe in the past – he knew she could be a right poster child for the joys of denial – but give her the challenge and she’d bloody walk through fire to meet it, no matter how frightened she might be at the outset.

Biggest heart he’d ever seen.  Spike would dearly love the chance to convince her of that, every day for the rest of her life, if she’d let him.


	33. Regret, Reveal

So that left Willow.

Actually, that left nearly two days of Buffy clearing her emails while she worked up the courage to call Willow.  Buffy wasn’t completely trying to stall – that was her story and she was sticking to it – she also wanted to see if there was any hint in there of why Willow wanted to talk to her so badly.

She got kind of an odd first impression, though, on reading Willow’s messages.  Her earliest notes started out friendly enough, hey how are you, call me; but with every day that passed, they got more worried and urgent.  By the time Buffy got to the most recent stuff, they were downright frantic.  Also frustratingly vague.  It was clear that something had Willow majorly wigged, and she didn’t want to go into details except over the phone.

Buffy already had her suspicions as to what, and they did not help her nerves any.

She sighed, turning her cell phone over and over in her hands.  Did she really need to be this worked up?  Spike was back.  Even if it ended up that Willow had been in on the Giles thing all along, it was kind of a moot point.  Okay, worst-worst case, she was in on it and had gone all Dark-Willow again, and agreed with Giles that it was good to keep Buffy under her thumb, or something – but let’s face it, this was not exactly a likely scenario.

No, Buffy realized, she was way more concerned about the two major bombshells she had to drop – Giles was out of her life, and Spike was suddenly back in it – than she was about whatever Willow wanted to tell her.  In the past, either one of those revelations would have been cause for major reactions from the Scoobies; put both of them together, and you were just asking for a committee vote on What To Do About Buffy. 

Granted, neither Xander nor Dawn had reacted that way this time, and certainly Buffy had no intention of losing Spike no matter what Willow had to say, but still.  She had no idea what her friend would do.  Willow and her immense power, Willow and her good intentions, Willow and her guilt and baggage.  Would she be able to just step back, accept the sitch and deal, after Buffy told her what was going on at her end?  If she found out Spike was back and that Buffy planned to keep him this time?  Buffy had no way to know for certain, other than to ask.

It made Buffy’s stomach hurt, a little, to think that maybe she’d have to convince Willow that having Spike in her life, that loving him, was a good thing.  Spike kept reminding Buffy that she didn’t need to get permission from anybody to do what wouldn’t hurt them.  Buffy kept forgetting.  It was still a weird concept for her to get used to – this idea of having both her friends _and_ her independence.  With her experience, she’d really believed she might only get to have one or the other.

So yeah, the prospect of talking to Willow messed with Buffy’s stomach.  Although… not as much as facing Giles had.  Huh.  Interesting thought, once she looked at it that way.

Buffy took a deep breath, blew it out slowly, and started dialing.

* * *

 

“Hey Buffy,” said Willow, as soon as the helloes were exchanged.  “I’m so glad you called – ‘cause I didn’t want to tell you this stuff over email, and I was getting really worried since you wouldn’t answer my calls, and I have all this stuff I need to talk to you about…”

“Willow,” said Buffy.

“…and it’s really big but it’s also really difficult because I have two things to tell you, and one of them is bad and one is good – and I know you’re supposed to do the bad thing first and then the good thing, but I don’t want you to hang up on me or hate me or anything after I tell you the bad thing, because the good thing is really important too…”

“Willow,” said Buffy.

“…and you need to hear it, and also I’m really sorry for the bad thing even though I haven’t told you what it is yet…”

“ _Willow_ ,” said Buffy.

“Um,” said Willow.  Catching her breath a little.  “Yeah?”

“You knew, didn’t you,” said Buffy.  Sighed.  She could tell.  Knew it as soon as Willow mentioned hanging up on her, which was more than tempting.  Buffy could feel it, hear it in the way Willow was already begging for forgiveness for something she had yet to confess.

Damn it.

“You knew Spike wasn’t gone, this past year.  Am I right?”  And now, she discovered, her stomach didn’t hurt but her shoulders felt so, so tired.  Maybe she should feel angry, but instead, there was just that dragging weariness.

It occurred to Buffy that the sensation shouldn’t feel quite as familiar as it did.

“I… yes?” said Willow.

Okay, thought Buffy.  Her stomach didn’t hurt, but her throat was starting to.  “You went along with Giles, and didn’t tell me Spike had come back after Sunnydale.”

“I,” Willow began.  A long pause.  Buffy heard Willow’s shaky breathing come over the line.  “Can I say sorry?”

Buffy closed her eyes.  “I don’t think I want sorry,” she said.  “I want… _why_ , Willow?  How could you do that?”  Ah, there was the knot in her stomach.  She’d been starting to wonder when it would show up.  “I thought – I _trusted_ you, Willow.”  Her throat was starting to really hurt, now.

“I know,” sniffled Willow, “I know, and I’m so, so sorry.  You – Giles, he – I mean – I’m just really –“

“Giles, what,” said Buffy.  “Forced you to keep quiet?  You knew how I felt.  You knew how important Spike was, to me – to all of us.  Willow, he saved the world and no one thought it was important to mention he survived?”  Eyes still closed, she tipped her head back to thump against the head of the bed.  “I – did no one see that I was – I thought he was dead, Willow.  I mourned him and apparently everyone thought it was okay to just keep him a secret from me and let me go through that, because – because why?” 

Tears began to slip down her cheeks, tears she was so sick of shedding.  But the betrayal just didn’t seem to get any easier to handle.  Not even when she thought she might expect it.  Not from a friend.

“Tell me why, Willow.”

Especially not from her.

“But I did, Buffy, I did think it was important to tell you, I swear I did!”  Willow was in tears too, now.  “I thought you should know, I really did, and I was going to – but Andrew said Spike wanted to be the one – and then Giles –” She stopped, drew a shuddering breath.  Buffy could hear her fighting to get her voice back under control.  Sniffed once, twice.  “Okay.  Okay.  Um.  You haven’t hung up on me yet, you know, so that’s of the good, right?  I mean, maybe you’ll hear me out?  Can I explain?  Please let me explain, Buffy.”

Buffy wiped her eyes, took a deep breath of her own.  “I haven’t hung up yet,” she agreed.  “Yeah.  Just – yeah.  Go ahead.”

“Well,” said Willow, “I don’t want it to sound like I’m blaming everything on Giles.  ‘Cause I should have said something and I didn’t, even after I changed my mind about the stuff he was saying.  I do take responsibility for that, okay?”

“Okay,” said Buffy.  So tired.  She’d asked Spike to let her make this call alone, but now she wished he was in here with her, so she could lean on him.  Feel his fingers in her hair.  Feel less alone.  Her lip quivered, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Okay,” said Willow, “well, he started out saying we should respect Spike’s wishes, and let him be the one to break the news to you, himself, that it was what he wanted, you know?”  She swallowed, sniffled, and Buffy heard her shuffle about, pull a tissue from a box.  “But then he was all, Buffy doesn’t need complications in her life right now and having Spike back would be a complication.  ‘Cause maybe he came back but he left his soul behind, or something, and he was with Wolfram and Hart so maybe he was evil again, you know?”

“Am I the only one to see the contradiction there?” asked Buffy.

“No,” Willow said, voice small.  “But he… you know I’ve been pretty bad about sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong, before – with the magics and everything, right?  Giles… he really made me question my judgment where you were concerned,” she said.  “Like, he got everything all, all twisted around and made it sound like – like it would be interfering to tell you Spike was back, and that staying quiet would be more… respectful, somehow.  Like that made sense, you know?  I mean, that’s completely backwards now that I really can see it with a clear head.  But… I fell for it.  I’m so sorry, Buffy.”

“Why didn’t you say anything, once you figured this stuff out?” asked Buffy.

Willow sighed.  “I started to question what he was saying,” she said, “and then I started to worry that we were wrong, and then I – well – I decided I needed to get very busy with my studies with the coven.  Partly I told myself, it wasn’t my story to tell, and partly, I told myself that you weren’t really missing him all that much, you know?  That you were trying to move on, and I should just… let you.”  She took a deep breath, sighed again.  “Looking back on it, I was just living in denial-land, again.”

“Not my story to tell,” murmured Buffy.  “Xander has been saying that, a lot.  I gather he’s been running interference for me while I’ve been settling in here, right?”

“Yeah,” said Willow.

“I get the impression that there’s a really fine line between ‘not my story to tell’ and ‘I will keep secrets for someone’,” said Buffy.

“You’re right,” said Willow, “you’re so right.  And, I mean, sometimes keeping quiet is a good idea, but this time?  Really not.  And I am sorry,” she added.

Buffy sighed.  Of course she was.  Willow pretty much always meant well, after all. “So I take it that’s the bad thing,” she said.  “And, I still haven’t hung up yet.  You said there was a good thing?”

“Ooh, yes, there so is,” said Willow.  “Or, at least, I think it’s a good thing.  I think you’ll think so, too.”  Buffy heard a slurping noise.  “Sorry, drinking tea,” said Willow.  “Um, so anyway.  I got this phone call from Dawn, and she was all, ‘hey, have you heard from Buffy, I’m really worried,’, and that’s when I realized, wow, Wills, Buffy totally walked out on Giles over this, and you’re doing the same thing he did… bad thing, you’ve gotta make things up to her, right?  And I thought about what all Giles said, and I got this idea.”

Willow and her ideas, thought Buffy.  This was bound to be interesting.

“See, the thing is, we all thought Spike died underneath Sunnydale, right?” asked Willow.  “Only we were wrong, and he came back in LA.  And then Giles told us that he died again, in that mini-apocalypse thing, which, gotta say, he really should have told us about that beforehand, you know?  So I got to thinking, what if we were wrong again?”

“Meaning…” prompted Buffy.

“Meaning, what if the rumors weren’t accurate?  What if our information was wrong?  So… I did a spell,” said Willow in a rush.  “Not to bring anybody back or anything, ‘cause, so learned my lesson there.  Just… I wanted to see if I could maybe find Angel or Spike, or maybe both.  I couldn’t look for the others because, hello, close to seven billion people on earth right now – but there are only two vampires with souls out there, so I figured, they should be pretty easy to pick up out of the background noise, right?”

“I think I follow you,” said Buffy. 

“It’s just,” said Willow, “I know you were close, to both of them, and I mean, I was denial girl for awhile, but I figured out that you were really lonely, you know, and I just, I thought if I could do this for you, find out if they were still out there, then maybe if they were, maybe you wouldn’t feel so… sad.”

Sad.  Buffy shook her head.  Yeah, that was a good way to put it.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, until Willow asked nervously, “Um.  Is that okay?”

She smiled, touched.  “Yeah,” she said.  “Thanks.  So, you did a spell to find them?”

“Just to see if they were still alive.  I mean, undead.  Whatever,” said Willow.

“And… what did you find out?” asked Buffy.

“I – well – I know this is hard to believe, but – I think Spike is alive still.  Or maybe again,” said Willow.  “Or it might be Angel, but I’m almost positive it’s Spike.  It’s only one of them, either way.  Um.  Sorry about that part,” she said.

Buffy’s eyebrow quirked.

“I wanted to do something to make it up to you, going along with Giles like that,” said Willow, “and I thought, if I could figure out whether or not the rumors were true, that might… well, it might be a start, anyway.  And I don’t want to get your hopes up or anything – I haven’t done a locator spell, I can’t do that without something that belongs to either of them, and there’s no way to know what kind of shape he might be in…” She stopped, took a breath.  “But yeah.  I’m about ninety percent sure that it’s Spike, and that he’s out there somewhere.”

“Wills, that’s…” and again with the not quite finding words.  Anger and hurt, weariness, and yet, and yet, she really wanted to just let the whole thing drop.  Moot point, just like she’d figured earlier.  How much to tell her?  “I’m… really touched, I guess.  Okay, that didn’t sound very sincere.”

Willow huffed a little laugh across the phone line.  “I know what you meant,” she said.  “And I’m just glad you don’t hate me.”

“I don’t,” said Buffy, “but I gotta say… I mean, I don’t plan to ever speak to Giles again. Not just because of this, there’s a whole lot of stuff he’s done to wreck my trust, but… this hurt me, Wills.  A lot.”

“I know,” Willow said with a grimace.  “I shouldn’t have – I just – it really made sense at the time, you know?”

“Yeah,” said Buffy.  “I can imagine.”  She sighed.  Made her decision.  “People make mistakes.  That’s not the same as deliberately manipulating me, which is what Giles did.  So… yeah.  Hurt, but I don’t feel any need to cut you out of my life or anything.”  She paused, picked at a stray thread on the blanket.  “But you can’t, you really can’t, do this to me again, Willow.  I’ve taken all of it that I can, from pretty much anyone who comes along ever, for the rest of my life.”

“I understand, and I won’t – I swear,” said Willow.  “And, you know, whew.  About not cutting me out of your life, I mean.”  A nervous laugh.  “’Cause, gotta tell ya, I kinda wouldn’t have been surprised if you did.”

“Xander and I have been talking a lot,” said Buffy slowly.  “We’ve kinda figured out a bunch of stuff about how the Scoobies operated, back in Sunnydale.  And there’s stuff Xander doesn’t do anymore, now that he’s back from Africa, and stuff I won’t put up with anymore either.”

“Stuff like this, huh?” asked Willow.

“That would be it,” said Buffy.  “As long as you’re on board with – well – I’ve been calling it growing up, because for me it’s been about learning not to defend my choices to you guys or Giles.  But yeah.  As long as you’re okay with not doing that anymore…”  She shifted, pulled the thread tight and watched the blanket lift off the bed.  “Friends don’t do this, Willow.  It’s taken me awhile to figure that out, but I finally have.  If you can be my friend, and just – let me make my own choices, I guess – then I can try to keep trusting you.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. 

“My teachers in the coven have really done a lot for me, this past year,” Willow said eventually.  “Kinda, smacking me on the nose with a newspaper, sometimes.  I’ve wanted to talk to you about all of it.  I mean, I know I got so busy with them partly to hide from you and Giles and all that mess, but… I’ve still missed you.”

“Well… maybe you can come visit us, along with Dawn?” Buffy asked.  “I’m apartment hunting, and I’ve got it narrowed down to two or three places that I like.  We could… I dunno.  Catch up?  See where things go?”

“See if you can trust me anymore?” asked Willow in a small voice.

Buffy sighed.  She was in the right, she knew she was, so why did she feel so bad about this?  “That too,” she said quietly.

“I’d love to,” said Willow.  “I can get with Dawn, see if there are any seats left on her flight and we’ll come in together.  And,” she added, “if you wanted, maybe we could figure out a way to track down Spike for you, while I’m there?”

And, it was time to drop the other bombshell.

“No,” said Buffy.  “I, um.  Okay.  I wanted to hear what your big thing was, before I told you my big things, but yeah.  One of them is that Giles is out.  The other one?  I won’t need your help trying to find Spike, because… I kinda already did.”  She took a deep breath.  “Great minds think alike, I guess.”

“Wait,” said Willow, “you mean I decided to find out if he was alive, and you decided to look for him too?”  Another slurp of tea, somewhere in England.  “That’s… really kinda cool.”

“I didn’t exactly decide to look for him,” said Buffy.  “Not at first.  Long story.”  She shifted on the bed, crossed her legs.  “Can I tell you all about the freaky deaky messages and things, once you and Dawn get here?”

“Ooh, there were messages?” said Willow.  “Like, you guys are meant to be, messages?”

And Buffy felt her shoulders drop even further.  “Sounds like you approve,” she said.  And damn it, why was she still so eager for that?

“Hey,” said Willow.  “Xander’s been workin’ on me, too, you know, not just my coven.  Who you’re with?  As long as he’s not hurting you, or keeping you away from quality shopping time, not really my business to judge.  See?  Learning, here.”  She giggled a little, then Buffy heard a creak as she shifted in her seat.  “Besides.  I know what Giles said, and I remember what I saw, and they don’t match.  Spike?   Kinda good for you – after he got his soul, anyway.  Maybe even before that, but I guess I wouldn’t know.”

Buffy smiled.  “Thanks, Wills,” she said.  “I mean… I’d still decide to be with him even if you didn’t like it, but… it means a lot that you do.”

“I’m glad,” said Willow.  “That you still want my opinion, even after all of this.”

“I do,” said Buffy.  “I’m still hurt, but… yeah.  I really do.  Besides,” she added, “who else would I go shopping with, if I didn’t have you?”

The conversation got a lot less serious from there, which was totally fine as far as Buffy was concerned.

They had nearly a year’s worth of gossip to catch up on, after all.


	34. Airport, Male Bonding

“I still say you were too easy on her.”  They were at the airport, Spike clicking slowly along in his leg brace and a smart black cane.  He’d refused, loudly, to use the crutches they had rented for him originally, but he still wasn’t up to putting all his weight on that leg.  So it was the cane, or nothing.

It didn’t hurt that Spike seemed to know several dozen ways to get extremely violent with the thing.

 “I know,” said Buffy.  Arm linked through his as they made their way through the evening crowd towards baggage claim.  Ridiculously expensive coffee-mocha-thing in her free hand.

“But you still haven’t really told me why,” said Spike.  Twirled the cane idly in his fingers as they waited for a family trailing a gaggle of kids to cross their path.

Buffy sighed.  Of course they were going to have this conversation now.  “I just – I’m tired, Spike,” she said.  “Finding out you’d died in LA, dealing with Giles and the way he’d…”

“Betrayed,” supplied Spike.

“Yes, thank you,” she muttered.  “Anyway, all of that, and then the rollercoaster of you being not dust, mystical messages, finding you, helping you recover…” She sighed again.  “I’m not happy with Willow right now, but to be honest, I just don’t have the energy to hold a grudge.  The whole thing with Giles?  I just want it behind me so I can move on.”

“Fair enough,” Spike replied. 

“Wait,” said Buffy.  “’Fair enough’? That’s it?”

Spike shrugged, started walking again. “You’ve always been too forgiving of them, in my opinion, pet,” he said.  “But it’s your choice. ‘S what I keep telling you.”

“You’re the one who said I didn’t have to defend my choices as long as it wasn’t hurting anyone,” she pointed out.

“And you don’t,” said Spike.  “I’m a little concerned with Red’s behavior hurting you, though.  But it sounds like you know to keep your eyes open for more of that sort of thing, yeah?”

“I guess so, yeah,” said Buffy.  Squeezed his arm.  “Is that going to actually stop you from pulling her off into some corner and scaring the heck out of her?”

Spike smiled grimly, looked at her out of the corner of his eye.  Said nothing.

“Spike!”  She swatted him on the arm and he laughed at her, quiet, eyes shining.

Buffy couldn’t help but drink him in.  Leg brace aside, Spike was looking sharp once again in his beloved black duster, although he had learned the hard way that he was in no shape to stomp around in both his boots as yet; the added weight proved to be hell on his knee.  He’d been surprised and, Buffy suspected, genuinely touched, when he first spotted his little road-predator disguised as a car sitting in Xander’s driveway.  The idea that they’d take the time to rescue the road predator at the same time as they were rescuing him.

His duster and boots had still been on the front passenger seat where Figg, presumably, had left them.  Between them and the cane, Spike had acted a little bit like a kid at Christmas.

“No,” he said, “I promise I won’t take her to task for meddling in your life and letting you be miserable for the entire past year.”

“Spike,” she said.

His eyes grew serious.  “In all fairness,” he said, “I did ask Andrew to keep mum about it, after he came to pick up that one Slayer girl.  Dana.”  He reached up to tug on a lock of her hair.  “If I’d known, love…”  He tucked her hair behind her ear.  “I just… I never believed I stood a chance with you.”

“I know,” said Buffy.  “I’m sorry for that part.”  She bit her lip, looked down, back up into his eyes.  “The whole thing is just a mess, and it’s over anyway,” she said.  “I’d like to just put it behind us and get on with things.”

“What kind of things?” asked Spike.  Bit of a purr in his voice.

“Oh, you know,” she said airily.  “Apartment hunting.” 

The half-smile that went along with the purr faded.  “Yeah,” he muttered.  “Reckon I should be moving on too.  Can’t be welcome at Harris’ place too much longer, yeah?”

“You’d be welcome at mine,” Buffy said.  “And I was thinking in terms of privacy for us, not getting away from you.  Dork.”

“I’m a dork now, am I?” asked Spike.

“Yup,” she smiled at his scowl.  “You’re my dork, though.  And don’t you forget it.”

“Couldn’t if I tried, love,” he said.  Dropped a kiss onto her temple.  “Couldn’t if I tried.”

* * *

 

“Spike!”  There were stairs leading down from the inbound flights and secure area to the baggage claim.  A squeal from that direction had both Buffy and Spike wincing as Dawn launched herself off the third step and came running toward them, arms wide.

“Uh-oh,” murmured Spike.  “This is gonna hurt.”

“Not if I can help it,” said Buffy, stepping in front of him.  Intercepting her sister’s mad dash with a big smile and a “Dawn!  It’s so great to see you!”

“Augh, Buffy, let go!” glared Dawn.  “I mean, yeah, sister love, I’ve missed you too, but – Spike!”

“Broken ribs, Bit,” he said over their shoulders.  “They’re getting better, they’re just not all the way there yet.  Big sis is just trying to keep me from going crunchy when I walk.”

“Oh, wow,” she said.  Hands up over her mouth.  “I forgot, I’m so sorry! I was gonna –”

“But you didn’t,” interrupted Spike, “no harm done.  Now c’mere and give us a hug anyway.  A gentle one.”  He smiled, got his cane out of the way, and wrapped an arm around each of his girls.  Love of his life and Little Bit.  Dropped his head forward and inhaled the scent of their hair, mingled together.

Bliss.

“Willow couldn’t come?” asked Buffy, when they finally broke apart.

“No, I’m here,” said the witch, just stepping off the stairs, “I just wasn’t into all that running after all that sitting down for so long.  Ooh.  I think things were starting to go numb.”

Spike leaned on his cane, free arm around Dawn as Buffy and Willow embraced.  He sucked on his teeth a little, watching them, eyes narrowed.  Buffy was too forgiving by half… but on the other hand, she put up with the likes of him and everything he’d done.  He’d keep his mouth shut, but if it looked like Red planned to interfere in his love’s life again, there would be words.

But then she was stepping up to him, arms open, and he found himself with an armful of Red and a murmured, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” and he found himself too surprised to breathe, for a moment.  “You were missed,” she added as she pulled away, and he just… wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

“Er – thanks,” he said finally.  An odd sense of… homecoming?  Another person added back into his circle, one that had been emptied after Los Angeles.  The void that was his nightmare, retreating further from possibility.

“I wish,” Willow started.  “Well – I wish a lot of things, but mainly I wish I hadn’t kept quiet.  Kept you and Buffy apart for so long.  I know she’s working on forgiving me for that.”  She chewed her lip and her hands fidgeted together, playing with the strap of her purse.  “But I don’t know about you.”

Spike’s eyebrow rose. “Was my decision to stay away.  Mostly,” he said.  “Sounds like the three of us were played, in different ways.  Long story, that.”

“I guess so,” she said.  “So… are we still okay?  I mean, mostly okay?”

He tipped his head, tried to get a read on her.  “Yeah,” he said eventually.  “Long as you do some of the same growin’ Buffy and Harris have done, yeah.  Don’t see why not.”

Willow beamed, and he realized she was completely sincere.  Also… rooted.  There was a stability about her now that reminded him of Glinda – Tara.  He still missed her sometimes.  Wondered if Red did, too.

“Don’t see why not,” he said again thoughtfully, as Buffy and Dawn came back with their luggage.

* * *

 

Three girls in the house.  Four, once Xander’s other witch friend, Cathy, showed up.  All nattering on and giggling and gossiping.

A smart bloke took himself to the back patio as soon as he could, while still being polite.

Christ, a master vampire worried about politeness.  There were days when the soul was more of a burden than usual – skip the conscience and the guilt, any day it made him act like a complete nancy boy qualified.

“Beer?”

Harris was either smarter than expected, or less polite.  That, or his sense of self-preservation had honed itself while he was off traipsing about Africa this past year.  Either way, he was already outside, comfy in his camp chair and gazing up at stars that were invisible in the skies of LA.  A second chair with a footstool was set up beside him.  Cooler open between the two chairs.

“Yeah,” said Spike.  Pulled out a bottle.  “Great Black Swamp Brewery?  You trying to set me up, Harris?”

Xander rolled his head along the back of the camp chair to look at him.  “Nah,” he said, “local history.  I guess Lake Erie used to be a whole lot bigger, and around the last Ice Age the banks collapsed, somewhere over in Indiana.  After it drained, the lake bottom turned into swamp.  Pioneers settling here said you had to drive a hundred miles out of your way to get around it.  Good farmland, though.”  He tipped his bottle up, took a swallow.  “Waitress when I picked these up is a geology major at the university.”

“Hm,” said Spike.  Leaned on his cane, sat down and popped the cap off his own bottle.  “Mosquito Red.  Now I know you’re having me on.”

Harris grinned.  “One bloodsucker to another,” he replied.  “I couldn’t resist.  Plus it’s good beer.”

“It is at that,” said Spike after the first sip.  Took another taste, savoring it.  Worked his leg up onto the footstool and got comfortable.  “I still can’t figure you out, Harris,” he said.  “Thought you’d have kicked me out, once I was mobile again.”  Took another swallow, leaned back… noticed that Harris had set him up to the left, easier for Spike to get in and out but on Harris’ blind side.  Raised an eyebrow at that.  “Never thought I’d see the day when you’d trust me farther than you could throw me.”

“Yeah, well,” said Harris.  “I told you before, I had my reasons to hate your guts and now I don’t.”

“Hm,” Spike said again.  Tipped his head back – the stars here in the Midwest really weren’t too bad.  Specially compared to the smog zone that was most of Southern California.  “Gotta be more to it than my savin’ the world.”

Harris rolled his head again, gave him a once-over with his good eye.  “It helps that I’m not the only guy in the house with you around,” he said.  “But which do you want to hear? Why I hated you, or why I stopped?”

“Your choice, mate,” said Spike.  “I’m just here for the beer.”  Finished his bottle of Mosquito Red and reached for another out of the cooler.  “Cheers.”

Xander nodded, leaned back again to look at the sky.  They were both silent for a long moment, just enjoying the quiet.  Inside Spike could hear the girls bursting into laughter over something.  Made him smile to hear it.

The way Harris told it, Buffy hadn’t really laughed in far too long.

Just when Spike figured they’d be sitting in manly silence for the rest of the night, Harris spoke.

“Once upon a time,” he said, “back in Sunnydale, it wasn’t me, Willow, and Buffy.  It was me, Willow, and Jesse.  He was my best friend.”  He took a breath, blew it out.  “And he was killed by a vampire about a week after Buffy moved into town.”

“Sorry to hear,” said Spike, but Harris shook his head.

“No,” said Harris.  “That’s not all of it.  See, he got turned.  Jesse.  Used as bait because the Master knew we’d try to rescue him… recognize him.  Trust him.  Let him get close to us.”  He looked down, started turning his bottle round and round in his hands.  “He was the first vampire I ever staked.”

Spike said nothing.  What could a man say, to a story like that?

“See, the thing is, Giles was just our librarian at the time,” said Harris.  “We were still just kids.  And he told us, you know, he told us that when a person gets turned, they’re killed.  The soul is gone, the person isn’t there anymore.  The demon is just using that personality, those memories.”  Round and round went the bottle.  “I couldn’t believe it.”

Spike sighed.  “Tried to reach him, didn’t you?” he said.  Already knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” said Harris.  “What was left – the vampire that was shaped like my best friend – he thought it was funny.  Everything Jesse was, everything he’d ever been, this – this _thing_ was using against me.  It was like a sick parody – no, more than that – it was a walking, talking obscenity.  An insult to Jesse’s memory.  And I still didn’t want to stake him.  It was almost an accident that I did.”

He reached into the cooler and pulled out another bottle.  Rubbed ice off the label with his thumb.  “I had to hate you,” he said finally.  “Everything you were, everything you did – you had to be obscene.  Claiming to love Buffy, that had to just be a sick joke.  Bringing flowers after Joyce… you couldn’t actually care.  Because if you did, if there was anything – decent, I guess – if there was anything decent left in you, then why couldn’t Jesse have kept something of himself, you know?  What did that say about him, that he just… gave it up like that?  And if there was anything decent left in Jesse after he was turned, and I staked him, what did that say about me?”  Twisted the cap off, pitched it into the cooler with a little extra force.  “So yeah.  Hating you was way, way easier than trying to see you as anything other than a mockery of an actual person.” 

“No one really takes the change in the same way,” Spike said slowly.  “Each demon is as different as each human soul.  And they don’t just use the personality of the person who was there before – it… Dru once said, ‘who we were informs all we become’.  It gets exaggerated, havin’ the demon instead of a soul, but it still influences the demon.  Your mate Jesse – like you said, he was just a kid.  Demon would’ve been stronger than him to begin with.  Add in your average teenager’s impulsive thinking, thrill-seeking, that sense every kid has that they’ll live forever – that’s your basic fledgling vampire, straight out the gate.”

“But not you,” said Harris.  “Why is that?”

“Lots o’ reasons,” offered Spike.  “Any of ‘em could be true, take your pick.  I was older when I was turned, for starters.  Stronger personality, maybe.  Or Dru was completely barmy and did something different when she made me.  Havin’ a nest to take care of me, teach me how to do more than follow the bloodlust – fledglings can hardly think of anything but their hunger.  Not much room in there for personality when they’re still learning how to feed that ravenous hunger.  Well – you saw.  When you and Buffy brought me home.”

Harris nodded.  “Yeah, you… weren’t really you,” he said.  “Your mind wasn’t exactly online and broadcasting to the rest of you.”

“’S right,” said Spike.  “But my personal theory, for why I’m different?” He smirked, looked up at the stars.  “Let you in on a secret, Harris.  I was a right pansy in life.  You’re not gettin’ details, but let’s just say I’d never have made team captain in your school, and I didn’t exactly get a lot of dates.”

Harris, the git, snickered into his beer.

“Sensitive bloke, I was,” Spike said anyway.  “Sensitive soul, maybe.  Makes for a more sensitive demon.  Angelus had to teach me how to be a killer – but not how to revel in it.  That freedom.  Victorians were a repressed lot of buggers, and I was no different.  Passionate, maybe, but with nowhere in that society to direct it.  Take away those rules but keep the capacity to care?  Dru was my savior, far as I was concerned.  I doted on her.  She never discouraged it, so I never really lost that ability, I s’pose.”

Harris nodded again.  Kept his eye patch toward Spike so he couldn’t gauge what the other man was thinking.  “I guess that makes sense,” he said eventually.  “About Jesse versus you.  But yeah.  When he got turned, I don’t know if he kept anything.  All I know is, I had to stake him, and then go to his memorial service, where there wasn’t a body because he was just… dust.”

“Doesn’t sound like the kind of thing a man just gets over,” said Spike.  “I can see it.  You hating me.  But what changed your mind?”

Harris shook his head, took a swig of his beer.  “Oh the irony,” he said.  “It was Africa.  Vampires saved my life.”

Spike felt his eyebrow climb.  _And you let them?_ he almost asked.  “Sounds like a tale,” he said instead.

“I guess,” said Harris.  “Turns out, in some of the more remote parts, where everything is still tribes and warlords, some of the vampires can set up territories.  And they’ll take care of whole villages, handle threats or whatever, in exchange for getting to feed and not get staked.”  He shrugged.  “Kind of like Dracula supposedly did with his gypsy clans.”

“Goes that way, sometimes,” said Spike.  “Needs a vampire that’s more in control than most – someone can keep from killing every time he feeds, but yeah.  It happens.”

The other man nodded.  “Turns out, plague demons count as a threat.  Vampires don’t like having them in their territory.”

“You ran across one,” said Spike.

“The reason I’m not still in Africa,” he nodded.  “My job was to find new Slayers and bring them to England to be trained.  But England won’t let you into the country if they find out you’ve ever had certain highly contagious diseases.  It was like that one Thanksgiving – right after you got chipped – with the Chumash Indian spirit when I got syphilis and smallpox.  Only this time, as near as we can tell, I had malaria, dengue fever, and possibly ebola and HIV, all at once.”  He took a deep breath.  “I’m still getting blood tests for that last one.”

“Vampires killed the plague demon?” asked Spike.

“Yeah,” said Harris.

“Then you’re clean,” he replied.  “But I could do a taste test if you wanted to be sure.”

Harris choked on his beer.  “You’re – did you just ask if you could _bite_ me?”

Spike shrugged.  “Blood is life.  It’s what sustains us.  Diseases, some of them anyway, are death, floating around in there tainting the blood.  We can taste it.”  He made a face.  “Taste cancer, taste the organ damage in a longtime drug addict or an alcoholic.  Nasty.”  Took a quick swallow of his beer as if to wash the flavor away.  “I’ve tasted AIDS before,” he said.  “You want to stick with the blood tests, you go ahead.  You want another kind of test, you let me know.  But if the plague demon is dead, and all the other sickness vanished at the same time, then yeah – you’re clean.”

Harris dug the heel of his hand into his good eye.  Sat there.  Maybe another human couldn’t have spotted the shaking, but Spike could see it.  Women’s voices carrying from inside the house into the quiet of the evening.

“Thanks, man,” Harris said eventually.

“Well.  ’S like you said,” Spike answered.  “It’s good not being the only rooster in the henhouse.”

Surprised a chuckle out of Harris.  He reached across and clinked his bottle against Spike’s, took a long pull.  “Drink to that,” he said.


	35. Homecoming, Housewarming

“So what are you going to do now?” Xander asked.  He could hear the girls talking in the kitchen, a lone cricket out in his backyard somewhere.

“You mean, now I’m walkin’ again and you’re not kicking me out?” Spike returned.  His chair creaked, off in the empty space of Xander’s blind side.  Swallow of beer in the quiet.  “Haven’t quite thought that far, I guess.”

Xander nodded, kept his gaze on the stars overhead.  “I know Buffy has started looking for apartments, past couple days,” he said.  “I don’t know what your situation is, post-LA.  I mean money-wise.”

“I can afford a place,” said Spike.  “Just don’t know if I want the bother.  There’s papers and identities and all that rot to put together.  Things an evil law firm can use to trace a fella, if they wanted to.”  Another long pull on his beer, then silence for a bit before he said, “And I don’t want to bring that to Buffy’s doorstep, if I can help it.”

“Well, you deserve better than a crypt somewhere,” said Xander.  “Plus it’s a total cliché, a vampire living in a cemetery.”

Spike snickered, grew quiet again.  “You’re not suggesting I stay here,” he said. 

Xander could hear the note of disbelief in his voice.  Shrugged to answer it.  “I suppose you could,” he replied.  “Having another guy around, et cetera.  And I’m not saying it’d be anything permanent.  Just till you get back on your feet, or whatever.”  He made a face.  “Gah.  Pun not intended.”  Time for a drink from his own bottle.

“I should hope not,” said Spike.  “But – you’re serious?”

Xander shrugged again, went back to spinning his bottle in his hands.  “Well, yeah,” he said.  “Don’t make a big deal out of it.  I have the space, you need somewhere to crash.  Besides.”  He rubbed at the callus on his cheek.  “Partly I owe you.  Partly I don’t have a whole lot of people left around me who remember Sunnydale.  Even if you did try to kill me more than once, and annoy the hell out of me when you stayed with me before, and sleep with my ex, and hey, you’re right – why am I offering, again?”

“Heh,” said Spike.  “Habit, maybe.”

Xander smiled, tipped his bottle back.  “That must be it,” he said.

They both kicked back, watched the stars for awhile.  Listened to Buffy and the girls having a good time inside.  It was nice to hear – not just Buffy laughing, although that was a rare and welcome thing and definitely of the good – simply having Dawn and Willow back alongside Buffy made Xander’s heart warm in his chest.  Listening as they all got to know Cathy and the easy way they slotted her into their group just made the sound even sweeter.

Life was good.

“Answering your question,” said Spike after a few minutes, “reckon I’ll look for a place of my own soon enough.  But I don’t know what I’ll do.  Or why.” He sighed.  “I’m here for Buffy, but apart from that… I don’t want to be deadweight.  ‘Ve had enough of that to last the next century or so.”

“You helped Buffy train all those Potentials, last time you were around,” said Xander.  “Maybe you could do something like that again.”

“I suppose,” said Spike.  “Though the idea of getting my arse handed to me by a bunch of girls with supernatural strength seems less appealing than you might think.”

“So go after the normal humans instead,” said Xander.  “See, the headquarters for the Council of Watchers blew up in a so-called terrorist attack right around the time that The First was making its play for the Hellmouth.  Everyone is still trying to sort out their records and where all their money was, it’s a huge mess.”

“What’s that have to do with me?” asked Spike.

“I’m getting there,” said Xander.  “One of the things Giles and Andrew did to keep the whole money situation from happening again, was to set up the different Slayer Centers to turn a profit on their own.  The one in Cleveland is a martial arts school, open to the public.  They have self-defense classes that people pay to join, sparring, the whole nine yards.”  He coughed, couldn’t quite believe what he was about to say.  “Could probably use an instructor who gets how to think like a predator.”

Spike chuckled, low in his throat.  “Defend against this, kiddies,” he said.

“And hey, just think of all those cocky college guys who come in thinking they’re the baddest thing in town,” said Xander.  “You could kick all their asses and then collect their money on the way out the door, and the whole thing would be completely legit.”  He grinned, took another swallow of his beer.  “As long as you didn’t break any bones, anyway.”

“Hm.”  Spike took a breath, let it out while he played with the idea. “Never thought I’d hear myself say this,” he said, “but I like the way you think, Harris.”  Reached over, clinked his bottle against Xander’s.

“ _When_ I think,” said Xander, “I’m actually surprisingly good at it.”

“Hm.”  Off in Xander’s blind spot he heard Spike take another drink.  “Great Black Swamp Brewery,” he said quietly. “What else they got besides Mosquito Red?”

The girls’ voices carrying from inside the house, a lone cricket in the backyard, and another member of Xander’s family – the annoying relative maybe, but family nonetheless – sitting on the patio with him and sharing his beer.  Stars overhead, not too cold or too warm out.  No one trying to kill them for the moment.

Yep, thought Xander.  Life was good.

* * *

 

It was three o’clock in the morning in England.  In Ohio, Spike was on the phone listening to it ring.

“Bloody hell,” said a very tired Giles after a few moments, “who in the name of God is this and will you please stop calling?”

Spike hung up.  Grinned.  Christ, he loved disposable cell phones.  He’d bought this one with enough minutes on it to burn through the next three nights, just saying hello to an old friend.

The wanker.

* * *

 

“So what are you going to do now?”  Willow sat on the edge of Buffy’s bed, next to the suitcase Buffy was currently filling with clothes.  Two more empty ones sat on the floor waiting.

“What you mean?” asked Buffy.  Armload of shirts, plop into the suitcase, smooth them out, turn back to the dresser for more.

“Well, I mean, I know you have the apartment and everything,” said Willow, “and I guess you’ll be working training new Slayers and stuff.  But what about the rest of it?  I mean – are you going to keep hunting evil yourself?  Are you going to talk to Giles, ever?”

“Not if I can help it,” said Buffy.  “To the Giles part, I mean – I’m pretty sure I’ll still do patrols.  He can send me as many emails as he wants, I don’t plan to read them.”

“Shouldn’t you tell him that much, though?” asked Willow.  She picked at a stray thread on the bedspread.  “I mean, at least tell him that you’re not going to talk to him?”

“He already knows,” said Buffy.  “I’m pretty sure I wasn’t being too vague when I said, quote, ‘don’t ever speak to me again you son of a bitch’, unquote.”  Another armload of shirts.  Plop, smooth.  Pop a button off the top shirt… maybe a little less force behind the smoothing next time.

“Wow,” said Willow.

“I’m also pretty sure I told you this stuff the night you and Dawn arrived,” Buffy replied.  “Or did you have one too many margaritas and forget?”

“Um,” said Willow.  “I think… no?  I mean… I just – it’s Giles, Buffy.  He was like a father and everything and now you’re just… you’re…”

“Walking away from a relationship I’ve outgrown,” said Buffy.  “I’m not in high school anymore, but in a lot of ways I think Giles still is.  We’ve all changed over the years, learned to deal with whatever, right?  But what does Giles do?  The going gets tough, the Watcher heads back to England.”  Armload of shirts.  “He doesn’t get his way, he heads back to England.”  Slam into the suitcase.  “Buffy returns from the dead and can barely handle waking up with a heartbeat, he decides that _this_ is when she needs to learn to ‘stand on her own’, and heads back to England.”

There was one shirt too many on the stack.  Buffy threw it on the bed, smoothed out the rest.  “Spike has more influence on my judgment than Giles does, so he stands back and does nothing while Wood tries to kill him – no, more than that, he works _with_ Wood to keep me out of the way so Wood can try to kill him – and then when he sees how wrong he was and Spike _saves the world_?  He heads back to England.  Oh, and he keeps his mouth shut when he learns Spike made it out after all – but he’s not being jealous or petty or immature, clearly that’s just all in my head and I’m the one with the problem.”

Willow winced.  “I don’t think you’re the one with the problem,” she said tentatively.  “It’s just… Are you sure you’re not being too harsh on him, Buffy? I mean… he really thought he was looking out for you, this past year.”

“Yeah.  That’s what everyone tells themselves right before they interfere in my life,” said Buffy tiredly.  “And anyway, how do you know that’s what he was thinking?   You talk to him yourself?”  She zipped up the suitcase, manhandled it onto the floor and brought up the next one to fill.  “Which, by the way, go ahead, but if you plan on talking about me behind my back – don’t.  I’m over being everyone’s favorite topic of discussion.”

“Buffy!” said Willow, upset.  “I wouldn’t – I mean, not anymore.  You – this is your choice.  It really is.  I just – I’m kinda worried that maybe you’re moving too quickly, making your decision without thinking things through first.”

“What is there for me to think through, Willow?  What _exactly_?”  She stepped back, started bundling socks together to pitch into the suitcase from across the room.  “Giles had all year to change his mind about keeping me in the dark.  A full year of watching me suffer because I was grieving Spike’s death. The death of someone I loved, Willow.”  She stopped bundling and leaned against the dresser.  Closed her eyes with a sigh, rubbed at her stomach.  “If you can’t see why I’m furious – why I’m _done_ – then we probably shouldn’t even be having this discussion.”

“No, I do see – I do.  It’s just, I know Giles thought he was doing what was best,” said Willow.  “And I guess… I guess maybe I’m hoping that if you can forgive him, you’ll be able to forgive me.”

“I already forgave you, Willow,” said Buffy.  “As for the rest… we all think we’re doing what’s best for each other,” tossed a bundle of socks across the room, “but that doesn’t mean we’re right.  Plus we must not have a whole lot of trust in each other to start with, if we’re that comfortable making other people’s decisions for them.  I’ve trusted you, Willow.  And I’ve trusted Giles.  And I’m sorry to say it like this, but the truth is?  You’ve both burned me.” 

She fidgeted with a pair of socks before tossing them into the suitcase.  Pulled another pair out of her drawer.  “The difference is,” she said more gently, “I’ve seen you grow up and learn from your mistakes, and regret them, and I think I can still trust you.  That’s why I’m willing to forgive you.  It’s why we’re still friends, why I want you here with me right now.  I haven’t gotten that from Giles at all.  All I see from him is guilt when he gets caught pulling this crap, and some kind of justification for why it isn’t really wrong when he does it even though it’s wrong for all the rest of us.  And he still doesn’t trust _me_ enough to make choices all by myself like a big girl.”

“So,” said Willow, “you don’t think telling him Spike is back is going to help make your point – that he’s wrong and he doesn’t always know what he’s talking about?”

“I told Spike that it’s up to him whether or not to say anything to Giles,” said Buffy.  “Especially since the last time they were on the same continent together Giles tried to have him killed.”  Started gathering up pairs of underwear for the suitcase.  “As for making a point?  I don’t think anything I say to him has ever really sunk in.  I mean, it never seemed to make an impact when I told him I needed him.  He just – headed back to England.  Literally or figuratively, whichever.  So I figure I’ll let actions do the talking this time around.”

Willow nodded.  “That makes sense,” she said.  “I’m just… really glad you think you can still trust me.”

“I’m definitely still willing to try,” said Buffy.  Brought a stack of underwear over to the suitcase.  Dropped them in, gave Willow a hug.

“So,” said Willow, “do you think Spike will say anything? To Giles?”

“Not sure,” she replied.  “He kinda got this look on his face.  Like he had an idea.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what it is,” said Willow.

“Me neither,” said Buffy, “or at least, not till afterward.  So I don’t feel like I’m required to stop him.”

* * *

 

“Hello?”  Female voice, British accent.  Static crackling over the line, US to Great Britain.

Spike looked over his shoulder at the back patio, listening carefully.  Buffy and Harris were both still asleep.  Willow and Dawn were stirring, though.  Might be up and moving in a couple of minutes thanks to jet lag.  He’d have to make this quick.

“Good day to you,” said Spike.  Wound his accent up a few degrees socially.  “I was wondering if it might be possible to speak with a Mr. Rupert Giles – I believe he works at your firm?”

He could practically hear the secretary adjusting her attitude toward this obviously posh caller.  “Yes, sir, he does work here, and ordinarily I’d put you right through, but I’m afraid Mr. Giles is in a meeting just now.  Perhaps I could take a message for you?”

“In a meeting”, his gleaming white arse.  It was still morning there, Giles couldn’t have been in his office for long enough to even start a meeting.  Git was likely passed out on his desk and told the poor girl to hold all his calls while he caught a nap. If he was even there at all, after three nights of poor sleep thanks to Spike and his disposable cell phone.

“A meeting, you say?” he said.  “Just my luck, isn’t it, that I should be forced to speak with a beautiful young lady like yourself in his place.”  Waited while the girl fluttered and blushed.  “Yes,” he went on, “I suppose a message for him will have to do – but I’m afraid it might seem a bit improper or out of one’s dignity if I were to relay it to you exactly.”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“Well, you see,” said Spike, “Mr. Giles and I have known one another for years, and we share a number of, oh, I suppose you could call them in-jokes, between us.  Things that might sound offensive to anyone who didn’t know the stories and the memories behind them.  I’d like very much to leave him a message, but I shouldn’t wish to upset your delicate ears.”

“I’m sure whatever you have to tell him will be no trouble for me to take down, sir,” said the girl.

“Are you quite certain?” asked Spike.  “For instance, if the message started off – pardon me – ‘Rupes, you sow-buggering wanker’, and got worse from there?  It’s all in good fun, I assure you – foolishness between two old friends from university and whatnot – but I’m afraid the language is quite blue.”

“Goodness,” blushed the girl, and Spike grinned again.  “I suppose, as long as it’s all in fun – just don’t ask me to read it aloud back to you or I’ll likely be sacked for speaking that way over the phone myself!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my dear,” he said.  “Are you quite ready, then?”

“What name shall I put to the message, sir?” asked the girl.

“Pike,” he replied with a smirk.  “First name William, middle initial S.”

Let me see,” said the girl, “William S. Pike?”

“Quite right,” he said cheerily.  “Although I’m afraid it’s been some time since we’ve spoken, so if the name doesn’t ring a bell straightaway, you might wish to tell him it’s ‘Bloody William’ – but don’t mention that unless he asks, my dear.  Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise for him.”

“It sounds like the two of you must have gotten up to quite a lot of mischief, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so,” said the girl.

“Oh, you have no idea,” said Spike.

* * *

 

“…And it turns out that the landlord is a demon that Xander knows from work, so as long as you promise not to hunt him and his clan, he’ll cut the rent in half.”

Spike glanced about the room, a cozy little den given that it had no furniture in it – carpet, paneled walls, heavy curtains on the windows.  Not your typical basement apartment.  Actually it was quite nice, or it could be once a fella had moved in and made it his own.  But…

“Remind me again, love,” he said, “why we’re looking at digs for me when you said we were looking for a place for you.”

“Well, I just –” Buffy slid her hands into her back pockets, shrugged.  “Do you like it?”

He made a show of studying the walls.  “Mm.  Don’t know how I’d feel about it,” he said finally.  “It’d depend on the neighbors.  Always does.”  Made a face and shook his head.  “Last place I had, the upstairs lot were a pair of idiots, but they mostly kept quiet when I needed it.  Kept out of my business.”

“Oh,” said Buffy.  “Well, you’d have plenty of privacy here.  I mean, the entrance is even in back instead of out front with the other two apartments.”  It was an old house, one that the owners had chopped up into an apartment on each floor.  Solid construction, quiet old neighborhood, close to the university campus.  Spike found himself attracted to the place just for that, although he didn’t plan to admit it.

Except Buffy had an almost shifty expression on her face.  It didn’t suit her, and besides that, in his experience shifty wasn’t something she was any good at.  What was she hiding?  Spike walked over to stand in front of her, waited for her to meet his eyes.  “You still haven’t answered my question,” he said gently.

“Um,” she replied, “I forgot what it was?”

“Buffy.”  He trailed a fingertip under her jaw, watched her eyes drift shut.  “Why. Are we looking. At apartments. For me?”  Drew a line along her throat and across to her collarbone, leaned in to murmur in her ear.  “What aren’t you telling me?” he asked.

She hummed in pleasure, then sighed and looked at her feet for a second.  “I kinda already signed a lease on the place upstairs,” she mumbled.  “I figured it was close enough to the station, I’d be able to take the train in to Cleveland in the mornings, save gas.  And… if you took this one, we’d be neighbors.  If you wanted.”

Well.

Spike straightened, his fingers stilled on the back of her neck.  He could safely say he hadn’t seen that coming. 

“You sure you want me that close by?” Not a question he wanted to ask, but it was necessary.

Buffy smiled, put her arms around his waist.  “You’re being a dork again,” she said.  “Or maybe I am.  But I need you here – the closer the better.  I just figured we’d drive each other nuts if we, you know, moved in somewhere together.”

Spike blinked.  Definitely hadn’t seen that coming, either.

“I mean I’m not saying that we should!  I just,” she went on, “I came back to the States to have my own space away from Giles and everything else.  And you’ve kinda always had your own place.  Or at least, that’s what I remember.”  She shrugged again, uncomfortable suddenly.  “Plus I don’t know – I mean – we’ve only just found each other again, and we’ve got… history, I guess.  And I don’t exactly have the best track record with relationships, so.  I figured it was better to go slow.  That, and I don’t really know what you want.”

“I want you,” Spike said.  “Always have.  And… I need you, too.” Dug his fingers into her hair with a little laugh.  “You’re right, I am a dork.  Loving you is easy.  Admitting I need you…”

“Not so much, huh?” said Buffy.  “I know.  I mean we had these messages from the universe practically throwing us at each other, and we both want to be together – I mean – I mean, we do, right?”

Spike kissed her.  Just a gentle brush of lips across hers.  _Yes._

“But we still can’t just say so,” she finished.  “God, I’m hopeless.”

“No you’re not,” said Spike.  “This is just new territory, for both of us.”

“Well,” said Buffy.  “I had this fortune cookie once that said, ‘if you know where you’re going, it’s not an adventure.’”  Stretched up to kiss him again and he let her, slow and sweet, play of tongues making his heart kick in his chest with want.  “Want to go on an adventure?”

Spike smiled, nipped at her bottom lip.  “Anywhere with you,” he said.  “Sounds like fun.”

“Was hoping you’d say that.” Buffy dug her fingers into the furrows of his back and kissed him again.  He nuzzled his cheek against hers, gently nudging her till she tipped her head back and bared her throat to him.  He heard her breath catch when he growled, a deep inhuman rumble that vibrated his whole chest.

He couldn’t help it.  He was healed up finally, they’d been teasing each other like this all week, and Christ, it’d been too long.

Then his hands were on her arms, pulling her tight to him so she could feel him, hard and pressing against her leg as he kissed her neck, nipped at her throat, suckled her ear, nibbled all along the line of her jaw.  Fingers tangling in her soft, soft hair and cupping her head as he kissed her hard, rocked his hips against her and bit her bottom lip, tongues and teeth clashing together.  Pulled away just long enough to look over his shoulder, make sure the door was shut behind them.

The place didn’t have any furniture in it yet, but that had never stopped them before.

* * *

 

“Think I like this apartment,” he said afterward.

Buffy, still catching her breath underneath him, giggled.  “Welcome home,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to you all for reading. I was really, really proud of this when it first came out, and thought it was finally time to bring it to AO3.
> 
> Some notes:  
> **I'm from northeastern Indiana, originally. The town of Freedmont doesn't exist, but Fremont does.  
> **I worked at a greenhouse for a couple of months before writing this story. It sort of shows. What's really funny is that without knowing it, I put my fictitious greenhouse in almost the same location as a real one named Bakers Acres. I was a little unnerved when I realized, and now I want to go visit there and see if there are any old farmhouses nearby.  
> **The geology of northern Indiana, including the Great Black Swamp, is all true.  
> **At the time of this writing, the brewery I used from Toledo, Ohio and the names of the beers I selected were all real. If you're a beer fan, you'll have to try them and tell me if they're any good.
> 
> Thanks again for reading! If you want to leave extra kudos, you're welcome to stop by [my Tumblr blog](http://peaceheather.tumblr.com) and say hello.


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